


As Much As I Ever Could

by assassinslover



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - College/University, F/F, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-29
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2018-02-10 23:02:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 75,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2043558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/assassinslover/pseuds/assassinslover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This must be what a goddess looks like, she thinks through the haze that settles over her mind.</p><p>Transfer student Sansa Stark becomes responsible for the tutoring of one very lovely Margaery Tyrell for a Literature class that they share in spirit, but not in person. Sansa runs from the ghosts of her past and Margaery tries to break down her walls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

King's Landing University is one of the most beautiful buildings Sansa has ever seen in her life (even though she's only seen it in pictures so far), and she's seen plenty, but the capital is so much different from the old grey stone and snow of Winterfell and its suburbs. It's hotter for one. So hot in fact that Sansa already regrets wearing her sweater, even though it's her favourite. She doesn't make it more than five minutes before she's absolutely sweltering and has to tug the garment off and tie it around her waist, glad that she at least had sense to wear a t-shirt underneath. She'll need to buy more shorts if the weather is going to keep being like this, but she can't deny that it makes a nice change from cold summers and colder winters up North, not that she's seen many winters, only two in fact, but they were freezing, and her wardrobe suffered for it. There's no room for short skirts and slim dresses when the average temperature is 0C on a good day.

Without anyone there to guide her, Sansa has to make her own way through the city. She knows KLU sits on top of Visenya's Hill, on the site where the old alchemist guildhall used to stand, just down the slope from Baelor's Sept. Pulling her suitcase off to the side, Sansa fishes her phone out of her pocket to map a route. Public transport seems simple enough to manage, and certainly is better laid out than Winterfell's ever was. She still has her school ID, too, valid through the end of the year, which means she can get the student pass card and travel cheap. Money isn't exactly an issue in her family, what with the Starks being one of the oldest families still existing (Sansa could trace her lineage back to the time before the War of the Five Kings if she really wanted to), but her parents have tried to instil some kind of fiscal responsibility in all of their children, and Sansa likes to think it stuck with her the most.

It's a hassle getting all of her baggage onto the underground. Maybe if it was only her shoulder bag, or only her suitcase, it wouldn't have been such an issue, but with both she keeps having to stop to adjust her grip on the handle of her case and the strap of her bag on her shoulder. By the time she actually gets onto a train that she _thinks_ is the one she needs, her shirt is sticking to her lower back and she wishes she had the sense to cut her hair short like Arya did. Instead she digs a hair tie out from the dark depths of the bottom of her bag once she's found a place where she can stand without falling over and pulls her hair off her neck with a grateful sigh.

Someone is nice enough to help Sansa get her luggage off the train, but she's pretty sure it's only because her case got hung up on one of the support poles and she was blocking the exit, but she thanks him anyway. All he does is smile and dart off, lost in the crowd. Sansa yanks up the handle on her suitcase with a click that's lost in the sound of the train shooting off, the wind from its departure blowing bits of loose hair into her face, and wheels it towards the escalator and fresh air. It's hot on the hill, and humid, but not quite as bad as the train platform. Sansa pauses for a breath and wipes sweat off her forehead.

The Great Sept of Baelor looms before her in all its glory, swarming with tourists and locals alike, shoving through the crowds gathering on the steps and around the ancient statue, taking pictures. Sansa can see a few students sitting near the door in the shade that the tall dome and the towers provide, books spread across their knees and bags squished against their sides. Sansa fixes her bag. She'd kill to study outside of the sept, but its crowded enough as it is without her adding to the bustle, and the noise would only distract her. She makes a promise to herself that she'll tour it when she has free time and pulls up her GPS again.

 

KLU is even more gorgeous than Sansa thought it would be, even if the sept somewhat dwarfs its magnificence. She feels better when she notices that she's not the only new student there, and follows the helpful signs posted at helpful intervals towards the office building. It's one of the newer ones on campus, the other being a large dorm hall just put in a year ago, but no less pretty. Sansa groans when she steps inside into glorious cool air, letting it soak into her skin before pulling her suitcase over to the front desk.

“Hi,” she says, slightly breathless from the walk. “I'm Sansa Stark. I transferred here from Winterfell U?”

“ID?” The woman asks pleasantly, and Sansa fishes her license out of her pocket to show. The woman smiles at her and taps a few keys on her keyboard.

“Good to see you've arrived,” she says in a light voice, reaching under the desk. “Dorm head is out sick today, but here's a key for you. You'll be staying in the nice new ones they just finished, lucky you.” Sansa smiles politely and holds out her hand for the keys. “That one's to get you in the building, that one's for your room. Fifth floor, number three.” The receptionist opens a drawer in the desk and pulls out a planner, setting it on in front of Sansa. “There's a map in there in case you get lost, annndd...” Spinning her chair around, she reaches for the printer behind her, and places the piece of paper sitting in the tray on top of the planner. “Your schedule. Classes start Monday. Do you have any questions?”

“No, thanks,” Sansa replies, gathering up her things.

“Right, well, if you do you can email, or come right on down. Hours are from seven to four.” Sansa thanks her again and holds her planner and schedule to her chest. She knows she'll need the map to find all the lecture halls, but at least getting to her dorm is easy enough. Her brothers had moved all of her things in already (Sansa had had the flu when it was happening and hadn't been able to help), and stepping into the room _almost_ feels like coming home. It's a nice enough room, with a decent sized sitting room and a nice kitchenette. Sansa drops her things at the door and shuts it behind her. It could be a shack for all she cares, the only thing that matters is that there's air conditioning. She was almost afraid she'd have to set up a fan in every room to keep from drowning in her own sweat.

She spends the rest of the day unpacking, putting her clothes in her dresser and the closet and spreading out all her notebooks and textbooks and computer on the desk in the corner of the bedroom, followed by a good hour and a half fiddling with the shower and finally scrubbing all of the dried sweat off her skin. She feels worlds better when she's finally out, hair wrapped up in a towel and her lightest pair of Pjs on while she rips a page out of a notebook and makes a list of things she needs to do. Shopping is the first thing on the list, a fact that her stomach is only too happy to agree with. With a quick flip through the rules at the front of her planner to check that she's allowed, Sansa orders pizza for dinner, and leaves the list on the kitchen counter.

It's not until she has a slice of pizza on one of the paper plates left there for her by her brothers that she settles on the sofa with her laptop and turns on the TV for background noise while she types out an email to her parents, making sure to know that she's safe and everything went well before immediately gushing about how beautiful the campus is and how excited she is to be able to explore tomorrow, and promises that she'll work out a time to Skype when she's settled in some more. She doesn't expect a reply until morning, but sending the email makes her feel better at least.

The homesickness doesn't settle in until she's yawning and curled up in bed. She can hear the sound of the city around her, the faint rush of cars mostly, and occasionally there's a bang or the sound of a door opening and shutting somewhere on the floor, but it's a far cry from Arya's annoyingly loud music penetrating the wall between their bedrooms. She doesn't cry, but her chest feels tight, and even though her sheets smell like home the room doesn't, and it's such an odd combination that Sansa isn't sure what to make of it. She sleeps like the dead though, and if she has dreams, she doesn't remember them in the morning.

 

The view from her window is amazing. She's not even midway up the building but with the added height of the hill working to her advantage she can see the city spread about before her, the Red Keep still standing tall and proud on the far side, towers silhouetted by the rising sun. The light glints off the bay beyond it, throwing glowing shadows across the surface of the brackish water. It's a hell of a lot better than Winterfell. At least there's colour here. The North is just grey, grey and more grey, with some white and black thrown in for good measure.

Armed with another list, Sansa goes shopping first, careful to stay within her budget and not spend too much on all the sugary treats she likes so much, although she does buy more lemon cakes than are probably needed. There's still no reply from her parents when she checks after everything's been put away (typical lazy Sunday morning for them, then). It doesn't bother her too much. She's anxious to hear from them, but her excitement at being able to explore campus without having to worry about getting to her classes on time.

There's an expansive green in the middle of campus, dotted with trees and a handful of benches, and another on the other side of the school, in front of the library. It's the oldest building there, built off of what remains of the old guild hall. Sansa resists the urge to rush in side and devour every book she can get her hands on, and reminds herself that there will be plenty of time later for her to indulge herself, especially with being a Lit major. Excitement and nervousness bubble in equal measures in her stomach. The college experience isn't new, but at least back home she had Robb and Theon and Jon to show her around and help her make friends. Her parent's email reassures her that she'll be just fine, and that if she ever needs anything all she has to do is call. There's another email immediately after from her father saying that he'll pick her up if she wants to come home and Sansa chuckles to herself, imagining her mother scolding him and telling him Sansa can take care of herself. Her heart hurts for missing them, but anxiety about class tomorrow keeps it at bay.

She'd walked through all the buildings, armed with the map in her planner, probably looking like a freshman again, as she mentally planned out the easiest way to get to each room. Her course load wasn't terribly full, but her classes were in one of the older buildings, and it was full of twisting halls and a maze of corridors, and even the signs could be useless sometimes. Sansa had already gotten completely turned around once.

She leaves early enough to have a cushion in case she gets lost again, but she ends up not needing it. Years of living in a city as old as Winterfell has left her with an ingrained GPS of her own. She isn't sure she's ready to risk wandering anywhere off campus, but she remembers enough of the routes she had taken the day before to get to class on time. It's a relief, and better still, she doesn't actually have to pay attention in class (even though she's still more attentive than most of her classmates), and the first two let out early, giving her ample time to get lunch from the caf and meander to the other side of campus for her Classical Poetry course with Professor Lannister.

The Starks and Lannisters have been on tentative terms with each other ever since the Targaryens reclaimed their brithright, but it's been so long that their families hardly interact at all save for especially formal occasions, and those were rare. Sansa's heard of Tyrion Lannister, he's one of the most respected teachers in his field, but never met him in person. All the major families had retired from politics generations ago, tired of the feuds and the killing. To Sansa, they're all nothing more than names, more people with old blood and old money.

He's nowhere near as intimidating as Sansa thought he would be. He gives her a kind smile, regarding her steadily with mismatched eyes, and hands her syllabuses to pass out to the people sitting behind her. His family, Sansa knows, provided much of the money at the university's founding after the dragon queen swept in from Essos and took the throne. It always makes Sansa swoon, thinking about the history of King's Landing, and from the way Professor Lannister talks about the different poets and prose they'll be covering over the semester, she can tell he's just as passionate about it.

She wastes no time heading straight to the campus book store after, teeming with scared looking freshman, a few older students scattered among them. Sansa's no stranger to the internet, and she knows that she could have Arya find whatever books she couldn't locate for herself, but there's something about the feel of the books in her hands that keeps her from saving money by downloading. She buys used when she can and new when she can't, and lugs her things home, stomach growling eagerly as the smell of dinner starts to sprout up all around campus. With a pot of rice on the stove to cook, Sansa snacks on a lemon cake and flips through her books. Most of them are novels, several of which she's already read (and a few she's never heard of), and two poetry collections. Sansa wonders if Professor Lannister has ever written anything. If his reputation is anything like everyone always says, she's sure he must have.

Sleeping is easier that night. There's only one more round of new classes, and then it'll be settling into the same routine that she had kept up at Winterfell. She's confident that she can keep her marks up, but she knows she'll have to stock up on caffeine to get through the long nights of reading and writing term papers that she has ahead of her. Her class load is lighter, as well, only two instead of four, with enough time between them to let Sansa actually have a proper lunch instead of shoving a sandwich into her face between lectures like she had to do when she was a freshman.

Her first class is An Introduction to Esserosi Literature, their professor tall and swarthy, with a voice that's quiet and deep, but fills the lecture room. He doesn't look much like of a reader, but Sansa knows first hand not to judge people by appearances (all the smiles in the world can still hide a monster behind them). She looks over the lesson plan again after class is over, eating another lemon cake when her stomach starts to grumble, and stretches out on the main campus green. The heat isn't so bad when she can wear shorts and sleeveless tops. Maybe she'll actually manage to get a tan like all those models in the magazines that Arya teases her for reading. The excitement she feels at being somewhere new, studying something she's been passionate about her whole life, quells the homesickness she feels.

Her elective is next, and probably the class Sansa has been looking forward to most of her life. Melisandre (as she insists everyone call her) is beautiful, intelligent, and well-spoken, and Sansa fixes on every word she says, chin propped up in her palm. It feels wonderful to be in a room full of women eager to learn about their sex, and Sansa is so enraptured that she almost doesn't notice the door opening and the girl who slips through the crack, but once she does, she can't look away.

 _This must be what a goddess looks like,_ she thinks through the haze that settles over her mind. The girl gives a sweet, apologetic smile and shuts the door quietly behind her. Sansa stares, and she knows she's staring but she can't help herself. This girl is prettier than all the ones in Sansa's magazines, her beauty soft and gentle like a breeze, chestnut hair curling around her shoulders and in her eyes until she tucks it behind her ear with slender fingers. Sansa's breath is tight in her throat, and it hitches when the girl's eyes (dark, kind eyes) sweep over her and linger, and suddenly Sansa is all too aware that she's all but gawking and she feels her face turn bright red as she drops her gaze and stares hard at her desk, the words on the lesson plan in front of her swimming. She clenches her hands into fists, heart racing, and listens to the soft scuff of shoes against carpet and tap against wood as the girl finds a seat (the empty one two rows in front of Sansa and one over and oh gods she must look like a freak).

The rest of Melisandre's lecture goes in one ear and out the other. Sansa can't stop looking at the shell of the girl's ear, watching her fingers when she hooks her hair over it after it falls free, at the curve of her jaw and slope of her neck. Her mouth goes dry. She's felt like this before, this fluttering in her stomach and shortness of breath in her lungs but never _like this_ , never looking at some girl she's never seen before in her life. It's enough to make her want to bolt out of the room, but the impression that would leave keeps her still until Melisandre dismisses them. Sansa can't leave fast enough, head ducked and bag clutched tightly in her hand. Out of the corner of her eye she catches a flash of the girl's face and the curious expression plastered across it.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Her heart is still racing and her lungs squeezing for air even when she's safe in her dorm room. Her hands are shaking, and when she looks in the mirror her face has gone from red to white. She grips the sides of the sink and focuses on breathing, making her lungs expand even though they don't want to and slowing the pounding in her chest. The white noise buzzing in her ears slowly fades, but the sickness in her stomach remains. The first coherent thought that follows is that she can't like girls. Not even _Arya_ likes girls, and she's more of a bloke than their brothers at times. She was just startled by how pretty the girl is, that's all. It's not like it's the first time she's looked, or admired.

There's something different this time, though, a voice in the back of Sansa's mind warns. This is more than just some simple observation and appreciation of someone who's aesthetically pleasing. She tries her best to ignore it and distracts herself with Netflix and _more_ lemon cakes (she'll have to buy more soon if she keeps eating them at this rate), and when it doesn't prove enough to keep her stubborn thoughts at bay, she risks going for a jog around campus. It's cooler with the sun going down, but the air is still thick, and Sansa's worked up a healthy sweat in ten minutes and her lungs and legs are burning pleasantly. With music loud in her ears, just barely enough to cover the rush of her breathing, it's a welcome distraction, and tires her out enough that after a cold shower when she get back, she wants nothing more than to crawl into bed and watch movies until she falls asleep.

The next morning the real work begins, with reading assignments and further explanations of research project and large essays. It's enough that Sansa completely forgets about the girl, weighed down as she suddenly finds herself by all the reading she has to do. She starts that night, not one to procrastinate, music playing through her laptop. She has to take notes to keep everything straight, clearly written in her neat, precise print, with bullets and vocabulary definitions for words she doesn't know. She loses herself in the words and the prose and the meaning, letting them wash over her and settle beneath her skin, and for a time, everything is how it should be, just Sansa and her books, and no strange attractions bubbling in her chest.

 

All of it comes rushing back on Thursday when Sansa steps into the classroom and spots the object of her unwilling attention sat in the same seat as the day before with a book in her hand and her elbow braced on the desk. Sansa recognizes the title, it's one of the ones she was assigned to read the previous day. There's a cute little furrow between the girl's brows, her eyes determined and focused, and her teeth worry at the corner of her lip while she twirls a pen in her open hand. Sansa watches her fingers spin it around and swallows. As she walks past, trying her hardest to not draw any attention to herself, the girl looks up and smiles politely at her. Sansa only barely manages to return it, her mouth trembling as it stretches, and she slides into her seat biting back a relieved sigh, thankful that the girl's back is to her.

Melisandre strides into the room right as the clock set above the door hits three. Her presence is commanding enough that Sansa finds it simple  to focus on her, and not how the girl in front of her draws her hair over the back of her neck when she bends over to drop her book into her purse. The lecture, at the very least, holds Sansa's attention. She takes her notes and marks down the reading assignment, and listens with interest. Melisandre is an excellent speaker, her voice smooth and powerful. Sansa lets her cheek rest on her palm and finds herself listening more than taking notes, and risks a glance at the girl. Her desk is clear, but from where Sansa's sitting she can't tell if she's paying attention or not. She could be on her phone for all Sansa knows.

She manages to get away again, one of the first out the door. The other students must think she's some kind of freak with how quickly she high tails it out of the room, but Sansa doesn't care. If she lingers she'll stare and if she stares those feelings will start up again and she doesn't want to feel any of those things, not for anyone ever again. She's not hungry enough to eat, so she settles under a tree on the green and gets started on her coursework again. It's easier for her to think with the noise around her, and the sun feels nice on her skin. She stretches her legs out and settles back against the tree, closing her eyes, and letting her book lie open on her lap.

Before long she's yawning, her body feeling heavy and relaxed. She can feel her heart slowing, overly aware of its steady thump against her ribs, and her breathing deepening to match, and she knows she dozing off but she can't bring herself to move. It's warm but not stifling, just enough to make her feel comfortable and lazy. She's halfway to sleeping when the distant, still conscious part of her mind locks on to someone talking to her (or at her). Sansa groggily cracks her eyes open, drawing a properly deep breath with some effort, and blinks to clear her vision. When it focuses again, she wishes it had stayed blurry.

“You look comfortable.” Sansa scrambles to sit upright, her face burning, and clears her throat. She ignores how lovely the girl's voice sounds, low and rough like Robb's gets when he's been smoking too many cigarettes. “Margaery Tyrell. We have women's studies together?” A Tyrell. Of course. That explains why she's as pretty as the roses her house used to represent. The gardens in The Reach are still some of the most impressive and expansive in the world. Sansa swallows hard. Margaery is even more beautiful up close, her hair pulled up off her neck against the heat and the sun making her skin glow gold as it sets.

“Sansa,” Sansa replies meekly. “Stark.” Margaery's eyes light up. Sansa can't help pulling her knees up against her chest, even when the edge of her book digs painfully into her lower stomach.

“Our families used to be great friends, you know,” Margaery says easily, seemingly oblivious to Sansa's discomfort. Sansa wishes her heart would stop beating so hard. It's loud enough she's sure that Margaery could hear it if she listened. "Are you new here? I've never seen you before."

"I transferred," Sansa replies in a shaky voice. There's nothing wrong with this, she tells herself sternly. They're just having a friendly conversation, one that she's sure she could have with dozens of other people. Being a Stark or a Tyrell or a Lannister doesn't matter nearly as much as it used to. Sansa shouldn't feel intimidated by the girl standing in front of her but she does and it makes her want to curl up and hide. Margaery's still smiling at her and Sansa wishes she would stop, because it's so kind and open that Sansa can feel herself being lured in by it, and people with smiles like that never mean anything good (she still has the scars to remind her of that, faded, but very much real). "From Winterfell."

"I considered going there, you know," Margaery says. "But Grandmother said I'd be better off here. I think she just wanted me closer to home, though. I'm definitely not doing better." Sansa can't think of anything to say other than a quiet apology, but Margaery is looking at her phone, fingers flexing against the back as her thumb zips over the screen. Her mouth twists in concentration as she types something out, then slips it back into her pocket with a smile. "Well, I've got to run, but it was lovely running into you, Sansa. See you next week?" Sansa manages a nod and a quiet "yeah" as Margaery waves and strides off, phone in her hand again. Sansa watches her raise it to her ear and head off campus towards the city proper. She can't breathe right again until she's in her dorm trying to tell her parents how to use Skype and wishing that her brothers were there to help, but the Stark children had all dispersed for one reason or another over the past year (except Arya, but she was probably out with her friends getting drunk and playing with sticks in the woods and pretending to be knights).

It feels good to see her parents' faces, as blocky as they are until the internet adjusts to the memory usage and the picture sharpens. She waves and smiles and sits through the onslaught of questions until her mother shushes Ned and tells him to let Sansa speak.

"I met someone," Sansa says hesitantly, because there's really nothing else worth telling, and something about Margaery demands to be addressed. Maybe her parents can help.

"A boy?" Ned asks, the poor connection making his voice fuzzy. The picture lags, then slowly rights itself. Even though the quality is bad, Sansa can hear the concern in his voice, and for good reason. She quickly shakes her head and reassures him that it isn't like that (because it can't be like that).

"No. A Tyrell. Margaery?" She waits the couple seconds it takes for her parents to hear her. Her father nods, making an "ah" sound.

"Mace still sends me those bloody calendars every new year. Is she as pretty in real life as she is in pictures?" _More_ , Sansa thinks, knowing without having ever seen one, because people like Margaery are always prettier in real life. S _o much more_ , but all she does is nod.

"I'm glad you've made a friend, Sansa," her mother chimes in. "It's good to see you're settling in so well." The words make her feel better. Friends. She can do friends. She doesn't want to be alone, after all, and Margery does seem kind enough, even if Sansa doesn't entirely trust what might lie behind her pretty smiles and gentle eyes. Somewhere on her parents' end of the call a phone rings, and her father leaves to pick it up. She hears his muffled chatting in the background. While he's talking, Sansa takes the opportunity to fill her mother in on her other classes, and how she hasn't had the opportunity to explore much yet, but she's looking forward to having time over the weekend to find out what King's Landing has to offer, and how excited she is to finally go to the campus library. Catelyn warns her to be safe, and after they say goodbye, ends the call.

Sansa leans back in her seat and runs her hands over her face with a sigh. She's tired again and doesn't know why. She can't stop seeing Margaery's smile whenever she closes her eyes. The invitation had been clear enough; Margaery wants to be friends, and Sansa wants them. She knows what she told her parents, but she's suddenly not so sure if she can handle being friends with someone like Margaery Tyrell and still stay sane.

 

Sansa sleeps through her alarm, hitting snooze twice before just turning it off all together and dozing on and off for the next hour. She takes time picking out her outfit, making sure she chooses something that matches the weather, and shoves her lightest sweater into her bag just in case the 60% chance of rain the weather is report is actually accurate for once. King's Landing could use a good storm. Sansa can almost feel the humidity seeping through the walls of her room. All in all it's probably not the best day to be going out and exploring the city, but she's eager to get away from the school and see the sights, and the weather is supposed to be even worse over the weekend.

Armed with her camera and the bottle of water she takes when she runs, Sansa leaves her dorm and the campus behind, pausing only to tie her hair up in a loose bun that hangs at the base of her skull and pull up a list of places to see and things to do in the city. She goes to the sept first, it's the closest after all, and marvels at its architecture. She wonders how much of it is still original. It's a beautiful sight, and even though Sansa's family isn't particularly religious (and never have been, as far as the Seven are concerned), she can't help but feel awed by it.

Most of what shows up on her phone is restaurants and clubs and shops. Sansa makes bookmarks for ones that sound interesting as she slowly makes her way across the city, alternating between walking and stuffing herself on buses. While in transit, she looks up the Red Keep and browses through the landmark's site, ignoring the history that she already knows. Entry into the castle is free, but Sansa's sure it's bound to be crowded, and when she arrives she's proven right. Tempted to linger as she is, she's hungry from skipping lunch, and after catching a few rather wonderful photos of the sun setting behind the Keep's western towers before heading back to the bus stop to wait. She's not terribly bothered by not being able to tour, and it closes at 8PM anyway. Besides, there's a restaurant near KLU that looks good, and Sansa's not about to deny herself food just to rush around a historical site she'd really rather take her time with.

Dinner is cheap, but it still stretches her budget after grocery shopping and books. Sansa winces at the bill and sighs. It was worth it, but she'll have to be careful for the rest of the month until her next check from her parents comes through. It was the deal they had made; they would pay for Sansa's schooling, but she would have to manage her finances on her own, without any help unless she ended up in life-threatening circumstances (Sansa figures that they would help her out anyway, but she doesn't want to risk it).

When she gets back there's more reading to do and discussion questions posted online that aren't due until midnight on Sunday night, but Sansa's always been an overachiever, and getting everything done now means she has the weekend to relax. The more she does the less she thinks and the less she thinks the less she keeps replaying Margaery's smile over and over in her head and hearing the light rasp of her voice on Sansa's name. That comes later, when she's brushing her teeth while cleaning up a used tea mug and _another_ lemon cake wrapper, and when she's stretched out in bed idly surfing the web.

The nausea curling in her stomach makes it hard to sleep. She can't stop thinking about Margaery's eyes, about how her hair shone almost bronze in the sunlight. She looked like a princess out of a story, not someone who would ever want to be friends with shy, quiet, awkward Sansa. Sansa curls up and turns on her side, trapping a hand between her thighs. She can feel the runs in her skin against her palm, the tight ridges of flesh. She can't like girls, she thinks desperately, squeezing her eyes shut, or else everything Joffrey said about her will be right.

Her sleep is uneasy and full of vague dreams that she can't remember. She wakes up in the middle of the night sweating. She remembers what Jon told her when she was seventeen and in the middle of a panic attack as she reaches for the lamp next to her bed. Sitting up and leaning back against the headboard, she closes her eyes and inhales, counting. One, two, three, four... to seven, exhale, almost twice as long. Her fingers relax against the bed and the knot in her chest loosens, like someone's digging their fingers in and pulling it apart for her. She repeats it, one to seven, one to eleven, until the world stops feeling like it's going to end. The scars on her thighs twinge. Sansa rubs her hands against them roughly until they stop and settles back down, leaving the light on.

It takes half an hour and more focus on her breathing, the steady in and out of air entering and leaving her lungs, but she manages to fall back asleep. There are no more dreams, and she wakes up late the next day. It's still odd, not being rudely woken up by Arya sneaking back in through her window (Ned had barred the one in her room to try and discourage her late night dalliances, but Arya had always been resourceful, and Sansa promised not to tell), or by loud music or TV from somewhere in the house. There's no window in her bedroom either to let in sunlight to draw her from bed. There's only her phone, and there's no need for her alarm to be set on a weekend.

Eventually, hunger makes her get up, padding barefoot in her sleep shorts and worn t-shirt to get a bowl of cereal. The book she'd been reading is where Sansa left it on the sofa. She eyes it up as she eats. Normally she'd spend a Saturday out shopping, but there's no point when she has no money to spend and no friends to go out with, so it almost seems pointless. Normally she would relish a day alone, with her parents and siblings out, but now she wishes she was back home and surrounded by noise. She misses Bran climbing all the trees around the house, and up the old, crumbling tower that their father leaves in ruins because he likes how it looks, and Robb and Jon playing video games in the basement while her and Arya watch and eat popcorn and make bets on who will win (Arya usually guesses right).

There's no point moping, Sansa tells herself, sighing. Even if she doesn't have anyone to go out _with_ , the least she can do it take advantage of living on a gorgeous campus where it's almost too cold to walk between buildings, let alone sit on the green, and not spend all day in her room. She can focus on getting ahead on her coursework, and then she can worry about socializing. She's sure there has to be _something_ happening over the next couple weeks. Maybe there's study groups she can join, something occupied by like-minded people. Yeah, she thinks. Study group. If she has to she'll start one herself she will. It's a solid enough idea, one that gets her moving and packing up her things for a day outside in the sun.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying to blend worlds is difficult.


	3. Chapter 3

Sansa gets through two chapters of Gregor Woodshaw's _Old Gods_ before she starts feeling like her head is going to burst from all the imagery being thrown at her. It's a book she's dabbled with before, back when her prime interest was her family's history (they had always been connected with the old gods, but no one kept that faith any more), but studying it in detail is completely different from being curled up in a chair in her father's study reading it just for the sake of doing so. Putting the book safely in her bag, Sansa pushes herself to her feet and stretches, arms up above her head. Her lower back pops appreciatively.

Curiosity leads her towards the office building, hoping that there's a schedule of events and list of groups somewhere that she can use, or at least information on how to start a club of her own (if she needs to have people willing to sign up to start it she's screwed, but that's getting ahead of herself). To her relief, there's already a study group set up that covers the majority of the classes Sansa has to take (this semester, at least). The only problem is that it meets on Wednesdays, and Sansa's course load is full enough without adding something else on top of it. She stares at the sign up sheet and sighs, wondering if it's worth it for the chance to meet people, and after a moment neatly signs her name on the first blank line.

Being back in class is refreshing. Sansa hates not having a direction, not having something she can turn her mind to, and she's afraid to read too far ahead in any of her books without the corresponding coursework. There's no grading on any of the discussion questions just yet, but Professor Lannister pulls up a few examples to share with the rest of the class and help ignite a healthy dialogue. Sansa's both embarrassed and pleased to see hers among the ones chosen, but keeps quiet during the lecture, taking down what she thinks is important for her to remember and making marks in the margins of her book.

“Miss Stark,” the professor says kindly as she passes his desk on the way to the door. Sansa pauses, pushing her hair behind her ear. “I was very impressed with your responses. Keep up the good work.” Sansa smiles, cheeks flushing with pride, and thanks him before scurrying away. His praise proves enough to put her in a good mood all night, and on her walk back to the dorm hall she excitedly texts Arya, who reads the message but doesn't reply, then tries Jon and Robb instead. Their responses are much more enthusiastic and come around the same time. Sansa wonders if they're in the basement playing games again, and feels a sudden pang of homesickness.

Tuesday passes without incident and with no sign of Margaery. Sansa can't help but hope that she's dropped the class. School is stressful enough without all the emotions that well up inside her whenever she thinks of the Tyrell girl's smile, and it's easier not to think about it when she doesn't have to worry about seeing it. She's refreshingly excited for study group, as well. It meets in the library, which only adds to its appeal, and to top it off, there's food waiting when Sansa gets there; doughnuts and a box of pizza, and even a little pack of lemon cakes. Sansa wonders which one of the group shares her passion as she sits down and makes her introductions.

The two girls already there introduce themselves as Elinor and Alla, and excitedly babble on while they wait for the rest of the group to arrive. Elinor thinks that most of them won't show, because people always put their names down for things so they can say they participated in the future when they're making up a CV and looking for work, but Alla thinks they will and it's amusing enough for Sansa to watch them argue while she snacks on a lemon cake and stares at the pizza box, wondering if it would be rude to start eating it before the whole group arrives.

“You know, we need at least five people,” Alla says, flipping open the pizza box top and answering Sansa's question for her. Sansa eagerly reaches for a piece.

“No one's going to check,” Elinor replies. “Besides, we already have the group formed. As long as there's more than two people it's technically still a group and they can't just break it up. You worry too much.” Alla looks like she wants to protest, but Elinor ignores her and smiles at Sansa. “So, Miss Stark,” she says playfully, “what classes do you have?” Sansa digs out her books from her bag for Elinor to look at, her mouth full of pizza. Elinor makes an “oooh” sound when they see her poetry books.

“Our cousin has that class,” Alla says. “She's terrible at it.”

“Maybe we could ask her to join,” Elinor says distractedly, digging through her bag now. Sansa can hear papers rustling around and the chink of keys before she pulls a notebook out and drops it on the table with a thunk.

“Do you really think she'll join a study group?” Alla asks, her voice saying that she doubts that fact very much. All Elinor does it shrug and flip through her notebook and her own copy of _Old Gods_ before nudging Alla in the ribs with her elbow until she does the same. Sansa hasn't laughed so much since she left home. Elinor and Alla are constantly teasing each other, and soon they rope Sansa into their jokes as well. She finds herself missing Jeyne Poole terribly, but her best friend is doing an exchange somewhere in Essos, off discovering the world, and while Elinor and Alla are by no means replacements for her it's nice to finally meet people she feels she can really get on with.

It also means that Sansa's second weekend in King's Landing proves a lot more interesting than the first. After the group Elinor practically confiscates Sansa's phone and puts both hers and Alla's numbers into it before they both type Sansa's into their own.

"How much are you into clubbing?" Elinor asks as she hands Sansa her phone back and sweeps her books and pencils towards the edge of the table with the side of her arm. Sansa shrugs in response. She'd gone out a few times back at home, when she had turned eighteen and Jon had been determined to get her out of her room and celebrating, but she doesn't like the way being drunk makes her feel out of control, and after those few times she had stopped. She still drinks, but only lightly. Moderation is key, she always tells herself, and it's safer for her to get drunk in her room watching movies and eating popcorn with Arya that it's ever been for her to go to a club or a bar.

"You should come out with us," Alla says, pulling Sansa out of her memories and back into the present.

"I don't know if that's a good idea..." Sansa protests weakly. The other two grin at her. Sansa chews on her lip and caps her pen, dropping it into her bag with her books and her notes from the study session.

"It's always a good idea," Elinor says. "Come on, it'll be fun." People have told her that before, Sansa thinks almost bitterly, but her mood softens. King's Landing is a long way from Winterfell, and much larger than the old keep and the city that build up around it ever will be. She doesn't know anyone here, and no one knows her. She might be a Stark in name, but no one will care. To these people, she's just another rich girl. Sansa likes it like that. She can be whoever she wants, and if her new friends want her to go out dancing with them, Sansa can let them take her along. She grins and agrees and is rewarded with happy smiles in return. She follows the girls out of the library and waves goodbye.

The thrill of having made friends wears down the worry she feels about seeing Margaery the next day (a fear that turns out to be unfounded again), and by the time Friday night rolls around, Sansa is jittery with anticipation, her bedroom looking like a bomb exploded as she picks over three dresses she's hung up on the closet door and waits for her hair to dry the last bit so she can braid it. Sudden, erratic knocks on the door make her jump, then hurry to answer it. Elinor and Alla bustle in as soon as she opens the door, appreciatively glancing around and nodding and commenting on the state of Sansa's dorm as they make a beeline for the bedroom. Elinor points at the black dress Sansa has hanging instantly.

"Can never go wrong with black," she says just as Alla calls from the kitchen stating that Sansa's fridge is severely lacking in booze. Sansa giggles and pulls the dress off its hanger. She's giddy with excitement, her heart feeling too big for her chest. It's almost like having Jeyne around again, although there's no Arya around to poke fun even as she spends far more time getting ready for a night out than she would ever admit to anyone even under threat of torture.

They're dressed to the nines as they bustle into a cab (Alla adamantly stating that she doesn't care how close the club is or isn't, she's not walking anywhere in these heels, they're already making her feet ache), and Sansa feels like she could fly. Around her night has fallen but the city is still alive. Bars and restaurants are packed and there's bright lights everywhere, flicking past on the other side of Sansa's reflection in the window as they drive down the hill along what used to be the Street of Steel.

Elinor winks at the bouncer at the club door even as she shows him her ID. All Sansa does is smile politely and say thanks as he steps aside to let her in and wishes her a good night. It's loud inside. The music was already thumping through the ground beneath her feet when they were waiting in line, but now Sansa can feel it in her whole body, bouncing through her veins. Alla grabs her wrist with a hand that's already warm and pulls her after Elinor, who's inching her way around the edge of the dance floor and weaving around sofas and chairs towards the bar. Sansa breathes in deep, the scent of sweat and booze and cigarette smoke stinging her nose, and lets it out calmly through her mouth. A drink or two won't be the end of the world.

She lets her new friends give her fruity drinks that are a far cry from bitter scotch and sharp vodka filched from Jon's room or her father's study. There's one, then two, then three and she's feeling buzzed and pumped and ready to go, and lets herself dance with Alla and Elinor, laughing, even though the kind of music the DJ is playing is the kind of music she hates and only tolerates because years of having Arya for a sister has gotten her used to obnoxious tunes. She's sweating like she's been running and Elinor is rubbing against her way more provocatively than a sober Sansa would be able to handle, but Sansa's far from sober now, and besides, Elinor is only trying to get the attention of someone dancing near them and as soon as he's looking she's gone and Alla grabs Sansa's hands and takes control of the dance. It's fun and innocent and everything Sansa could ever want from a night out.

When Alla's complaints about her feet hurting finally get too much for Sansa or Elinor to stand they head out, Elinor with a number written on her arm and lipstick smeared across her cheek. She's grinning like a loon when they finally flag a cab down halfway back up the hill, and Alla's taken off her shoes and it telling Sansa how she thinks she could hit the rubbish bin across the street if she threw one hard enough. Sansa takes both shoes from her before she can try. They're not the only people partying either. There's noise all over campus. Sansa absently wonders how many noise complaints will be filed before the night is out. Everyone seems to have settled in now. There's loud music down the hall from her dorm that reminds Sansa of Arya's stupid techo music (or whatever it's called, Sansa just thinks it's noise).

Elinor and Alla kiss Sansa's cheeks and call her “babe” and Sansa waves at them as they teeter off to their own dorm. She wants to shower, but now that she's home and it's relatively quiet in her bedroom, she feels bone tired and only manages to wash her make up off and struggle out of her dress, leaving it on the floor. She knows it'll wrinkle, and she knows she'll care when she wakes up in the morning, but all Sansa can think about is how nice her bed looks and how much better she'll feel when she's in it.

She dreams she's dancing again, with that same shitty music filling the air around her, but it's not with her friends. She can see them at the bar, drinking and laughing, and when they notice her they wave. Sansa returns the gesture and leans back against the person behind her. It should be awkward that they're smaller than her (Sansa's always been gangly), but it's not, and maybe it's because it's a dream, but for once Sansa doesn't mind being taller than most of the girls she knows.

“We should be friends,” a familiar voice whispers just shy of her ear, and Sansa thinks _more_.

Sansa wakes up at midday feeling hot all over, thirsty, hungry and absolutely dying for a shower. As she scrubs the sweat of the previous night off her skin and forces herself into full wakefulness, she tries to remember her dream, but all she can remember is music and there was plenty of that last night, so much that her head is still throbbing, just by her temples. It persists as the day goes on, and it's Sansa's own fault for forgetting to buy painkillers. If she didn't feel so shitty she would go out and get some, but all she does is curl up on the couch and doze. She'll go tomorrow, she thinks, yawning.

There's no pharmacy on campus, but there's one down the block. In sweatpants and a t-shirt, Sansa walks to it in weather that's really too warm for pants and into cool air con. She spends a few minutes trying to decide what size bottle to get, weighing how much Elinor and Alla will drag her out for nights like Friday and how much money she can spend, and decides to play it safe and go for a larger bottle. She's standing in line to pay when she hears her name and nearly drops the bottle in shock. When she turns around, Margaery is walking towards her, a bottle in her hands.

“Hey,” she greets, slipping into line next to Sansa. There's someone behind them already, but he looks stoned off his face and seems more focused on trying not to open the bag of chips he's clutching than anything else. Sansa smiles at her, reminding herself to be polite even though she suddenly wants to drop her medicine and run all the way back to her room. Her heart is racing again. “Rough weekend?”

“Yeah,” Sansa says meekly. “You?”

“No,” Margaery says shaking her head. “I spent all weekend listening to my brother and his boyfriend having sex.” A brief look of disgust crosses Margaery's pretty face, and all Sansa can focus on is _gay, gay, gay._ “No, these are for my cousins, who decided to go out and binge drink last night and then called me this morning whinging about how they ran out of painkillers and begging for me to bring them some.”

“Oh.”

“Lazy cows,” Margaery tacks on, but it's too full of affection to be taken as a true insult. Sansa shuffles up to the counter when the person in front of her moves aside. “Here, let me,” Margaery says quickly setting her own bottle next to Sansa's.

“No, that's-” But Margaery is already smiling prettily at the cashier, who blushes and rubs the stubble on his jaw with one hand while swiping Margaery's card with the other. Sansa smiles politely at the cashier and claims her bottle before either him or Margaery can take it from her and drops it into her purse.

“Walk back to campus with me?” Margaery asks with a smile that Sansa can't say no to and she hates herself for it. There's no excuse either, not when she's clearly not going anywhere else. So she nods and trails behind Margaery as the girl leaves the shop, holding the door open for her, and then falls into step next to her. To her credit, Margaery doesn't make any attempts at small talk. It's easier when Sansa doesn't have to make conversation. She can focus on other things, like how she's already has sweat on the back of her neck, and how one of the guys waiting tables outside a restaurant is attractive (but not as attractive as Margaery).

Panic rises in her chest again. Margaery is too pretty. Sansa can't stop thinking it, can't stop stealing little glances. The world feels like it's closing in around her and campus seems so much farther away than it really is. They're not walking fast enough but if Sansa moves ahead then Margaery will notice and she'll ask questions. She tries to breathe and prays that Margaery won't start talking because Sansa isn't in the right state of mind to listen to her.

“This is me,” Sansa says as soon as her dorm is in sight. She knows Elinor and Alla are on the other side of campus in the older dorms. It doesn't make any sense for Margaery to keep following her. It's safe. “Nice running into you. See you Tuesday.” She gone before Margaery can formulate a response, doing her best to keep from running, and pushing the tightness in her chest to the corners of her ribs until she's in her room and she can shakily pour a glass of water.

The fear passes, slowly. Sansa hates that she's like this. Maybe she should drop women's studies. She doesn't need the class anyway, and if Margaery is determined to be at least friendly if not outright strike up a friendship with Sansa, she doesn't know how much more she'll be able to stand sitting in the same room as the girl, staring at her hair curling down her back and her fingers playing with a pen (and even though it's only happened twice the lecture is long and the memories play themselves on a loop in Sansa's mind). It'll be the death of her.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Sansa keeps her head down during her Monday lectures, responds to texts and emails while curled up on the sofa with a bowl of cereal for dinner that night, and tries not to think too much about class the next day. She ends up falling asleep on the sofa texting Arya and wakes up to her phone buzzing and ringing loudly from the floor with a crick in her neck and a dead leg. All in all, it's not the best way to start the day. Not even a shower makes her feel that much better, and she rubs her neck and rolls her head for half the day until the knots of tension loosen enough for the ache to stop.

Margaery is late again. The look Melisandre gives her when she walks into the room would be enough to wither lesser women, but Margaery Tyrell is so much more than what she seems, and that's what scares Sansa the most. She keeps her eyes on her book, refusing to look even as she hears Margaery settle into her seat. _I won't look, I won't look, I won't look._

“Hey, Sansa.” _I won't look._ “Sansa, have you got a pen? I lost mine on the bus.” She holds out the one in her hand even though she's using it. She'd give all her pens away if it meant Margaery would leave her alone. “Cheers,” Margaery says, and their fingers brush as she takes the pen and Sansa's hand feels like she plunged it into a fire. She doesn't hear a word Melisandre says for the rest of the lesson, just stares at her fingers where they tremble lightly against her desk and waits for class to be dismissed. She doesn't care about not getting her pen back.

It's really becoming a problem, her attraction to Margaery (she refuses to admit it's anything more than that, because it can't be a crush, it just can't). Her worry and stress levels rise and fall but they're always there, and it's reached the point where Sansa is daydreaming during lectures where she should be paying attention, especially since this one poem she's had so much trouble with over the past two days is being discussed. She wills the day to go by, waiting for the study group. Bouncing ideas off of Elinor and Alla will help, and provide a welcome distraction from the girl plaguing her thoughts.

Except when she walks in, armed with a packet of lemon cakes to split, Margaery is already there, laughing with Sansa's friends and leaning forward over the table, her chin in her palm. Sansa nearly walks right back out, but Alla spots her and waves, and then Margaery turns and graces Sansa with a smile so brilliant that her stomach flips and her knees go weak. She can't run now.

“Sansa!” Alla half-shouts, suddenly dropping her voice when she remembers they're in a library. “This is our cousin, Margaery.”

“We've met,” Sansa says weakly.

“Sit next to me, Sansa,” Margaery says, pulling out the chair. Her voice is so bright, and her eyes so warm and inviting that Sansa takes the seat offered. They're close, arms almost brushing. Sansa remembers the softness of her fingers, even though it was the barest brush, and feels her face warm. “You know, I wasn't going to come to this,” Margaery continues as Alla says something about finding where Elinor wandered off to, “but then your name was mentioned and I couldn't say no. Here's your pen, by the way. You took off so fast yesterday I never got the chance to give it back.”

Sansa mutters her thanks and rolls the pen to her with her fingertips. She can hear Elinor and Alla returning. When they round the corner, Elinor waves, and Sansa distracts herself with getting her books out until she notices that Margaery has the same poetry book she does and frantically tries to remember if she's seen the other girl in Professor Lannister's class or not.

“I'm rubbish at poetry,” Margaery says with a smile that's almost embarrassed when she catches Sansa looking. “I suppose that's part of the reason I decided to come to this.”

“We're all rubbish at poetry, Marg,” Elinor says, plopping herself down in a chair with an exaggerated sigh and stretching her arms above her head. “Sansa is the only one who seems to understand it at all, gods know how.”

“Maybe she could tutor you, Marg,” Alla says, and Sansa can tell it's meant to be a joke, but Margaery's eyes glow and she turns her charming smile back on Sansa again. “I mean, you're the one who actually needs to pass to graduate.”

“Oh, _please_ , Sansa,” Margaery says, reaching out for Sansa's hands, folded on the table. Sansa pulls them away, but Margaery seems not to notice, her fingers remaining against Sansa's notebook, reaching across the pages but not chasing to touch her again. “I wouldn't want to hog your time during your study group; that would be terribly rude of me. Oh, say you will!” Sansa's always been too nice for her own good. She was too nice to Joffrey, too nice afterwards when she was defending him to her family and friends, too nice to say no to Margaery Tyrell. She nods.

 

Mondays and Wednesdays are too full for Sansa to be free, which leaves her agreeing to Tuesdays and Thursdays after their women's studies class as a good time for Margaery to come over. She doesn't know why she's so nervous about the older girl seeing her dorm (did she leave underwear out? Is there food wrappers anywhere?), but it's raging in her stomach as Margaery follows her across campus.

“I really can't thank you enough for this,” Margaery says as Sansa unlocks the building door and holds it open for her. She catches a whiff of perfume on the air when Margaery walks past and stops breathing until she presses the button to call the lift. It's worse being so close to her but the ride is short. Sansa's keys tremble softly in her hands as she unlocks her door. Margaery whistles softly, looking around. “Very nice.”

“Make yourself at home,” Sansa says quietly, remembering what she can about being a good host. “Do you want a drink?”

“Oh, I would love a water, thanks,” Margaery says sweetly (Sansa wonders if she's ever angry), and tosses her bag on the sofa before throwing herself onto it with a relieved sigh. Sansa hates how she settles so easily into unfamiliar surroundings, as comfortable and regal as a queen. “So, poetry guru,” Margaery continues, pausing to thank Sansa for the glass of water she's handed, “are you going to enlighten me?”

“It's not really about enlightenment...” Sansa mutters. Margaery rolls her eyes and pats the sofa next to her. Her smile could charm candy off a baby. Sansa sits daintily, hands clasped in her lap, while Margaery pulls her bag onto her knees and rummages through it. Their poetry book is thrown on the table in front of them, followed by a pack of cigarettes.

“They're not mine,” Margaery says in an easy voice. Her hand emerges with a pen, and the cigarettes retreat. “My brother's. It's a nasty habit I'm trying to make him quit. He can't smoke them if I keep stealing them.” Sansa doesn't point out that he could always just buy more. She's sure Margaery knows. It's the thought that counts, anyway. “Here.” Margaery is opening the book, pointing to a poem. Her copy is so plain compared to Sansa's, free of notes and errant pen strokes and highlighted phrases that resonate deep beneath Sansa's ribs, reaching into the very essence of her. She's already flipped to the poem they're both studying, an untitled one among a small collection by a poet called Mieuchant.

Sansa's never tutored anyone before. The most she's done is checked over Bran's maths homework and her older brother's and Arya's various essays for obvious typos and grammar errors. They never came to her for help, but Margaery, clever, pretty Margaery, looks as confused as Sansa's ever seen her. She draws her hair (it looks so soft, Sansa thinks) over the back of her neck and tucks it behind her ear. Sansa's close enough to smell her perfume properly, now.

“It's the questions that I can't get,” Margaery is saying, slender brows furrowed and the end of her pen at the corner of her lip. “Which is what I _need_ to get so I can actually pass the class. The poems themselves are wonderful, but I just don't see what Professor Lannister wants us to see.”

“It's easy, so long as you've read it,” Sansa replies, then feels silly. If it was easy, Margaery wouldn't be sitting on her sofa close enough that their legs are touching, asking someone younger than her for help.

“I _have_ read it.”

“Look.” Sansa points. It helps, having something other than Margaery to focus on. “' _i think, now, he was a fool/to settle for what once was stone_ ,'” she reads carefully. She won't trip over her words now. “What do you think that means?”

Margaery shrugs. “Something pretentious,” she says.

“Not all poetry is pretentious,” Sansa says. She feels silly now, like Margaery is the queen bee popular girl and she's the nerd who spends all her time in the library and can spout quotes from half the books she's read without having to look them up first.

“I was joking.” Sansa glances up in time to catch Margaery's smile, a small one, just the corners of her lips tilted up. Her throat tightens. It's been five minutes but it feels like five hours, and she should have put a time limit on these sessions before they started because not knowing when the torture will end is, in itself, torture.

“Right,” Sansa says with a nervous little laugh. Margaery is disarming her and she wants to keep her shield up and her weapons drawn. “Give me your questions.” Margaery fishes the sheet out of a folder and lays it on the table. Some of the questions are answered, the basic ones, in small, neat curving hand. She'll have to type it up later to submit, but Sansa understands the need to write things out, to feel the flow of a pen across a page, to see her thoughts slowly come to life on its lines. Sansa chooses the first one that Margaery's left blank. “Who's the speaker?”

Margaery gives her a look, one brow raised. “The sculptor.”

“Then who's speaking here, at the end? ' _i promise you, / if you approached my table, and consented / to pose for me, to let me cast in cold verse_ '.”

“The poet.”

“Yeah,” Sansa says. She leans forward, throwing her hair over her shoulder when it falls forward and brushes against the book. Margaery follows, pen in her hand. Sansa spreads her fingers against the pages of the book. “They're sort of one in the same. The poet is saying if they were the sculptor, but making poetry instead, they wouldn't settle for someone they made up in their mind; they'd want the real thing.” Margaery's looking at her again. Sansa can see her gaze at the corner of her vision, eyes honey-brown and curious.

“That's very clever, Sansa.” She blushes, and it's hard to tell if it's from the compliment or because it's Margaery who gave it. Half an hour, she decides, then. Margaery isn't a child who needs to have their hand held through every question. She just needs a nudge in the right direction, and Sansa understands. An hour of her time a week she can stand, she thinks, watching Margaery eagerly jot down answers to her remaining questions.

 

“You're a peach,” Margaery says before she leaves, bag over her shoulder and her hair curling in her eyes. She brushes it away with a flick of her fingers, tucking the loose strands into the knot she had tied halfway through the session. Sansa shuts the door after her and pulls air into her lungs, filling them as much as she can with oxygen that's still tainted by the memory of Margaery's perfume, hanging low like an invisible haze.

She invites Elinor and Alla over to eat Friday night, desperate for company that isn't Margaery and for memories in her dorm that don't smell like roses. They bring booze, of course, but drink far more moderately. They're all tipsy, watching stand up on Netflix (Elinor brought a cable to hook Sansa's computer up to the TV and she _needs_ to get one of those for herself because it's so much better), Sansa squished in between the cousins with the bowl of chips they're snacking on on her lap.

Elinor is leaning into her and Alla away. There's plenty of room on the sofa but no matter how much Sansa shifts Elinor moves to follow. It's just the alcohol, Sansa thinks, laughing at a joke. She's tipsy herself and the companionship is nice. She doesn't even care when Elinor puts a hand on her knee after she stretches her legs out (they're long and sitting makes them cramp up) and crosses her ankles on the coffee table. Alla gives them a look that Sansa can't figure out, then reaches for the chips and ignores them, focusing all her attention on the TV.

Alla gives her a quick hug when they leave then stands to the side, waiting as Elinor has her turn. Elinor's hug lingers, her hands warm on Sansa's back. She can feel the light press of Elinor's fingers through her shirt. Elinor smiles when she finally pulls away and mimes a phone with her hand, mouthing “call me.” Sansa smiles back and waves sleepily, shutting the door as they moved off and inhaling through a closed-mouth yawn.

When she's getting ready for bed, toothbrush clamped between her teeth while she works a tangle out of her hair (Elinor must have been playing with it when Sansa wasn't paying attention), her phone pings. She tosses her hairbrush on her bed to answer it, and smiles.

 **From Elinor:** _Great time 2nite Sans! Come over tmrw? Xx_

Sansa answers in the affirmative and plugs her phone in to charge for the night before finishing her teeth, running her tongue along the outside in a last check then rising her mouth with water. Her phone pings again. Another message from Elinor, telling Sansa that maybe she can help her with her poetry, with a “lol” tacked on the end, followed by: _Marg says ur brill._ Just Margaery's name is enough to make Sansa's chest clench. _It'll stop_ , she tells herself firmly, typing back a “sure” and turning her phone on silent.

 _It has to stop._ She gets into bed and pulls the covers up around her chin. The booze has made her tired. She yawns again. _It has to stop. I'm not gay. I don't like girls. Margaery's just pretty that's all, there's nothing wrong with her being pretty, but I'm_ not _gay._ She repeats the mantra in her head as she falls asleep.

Joffrey is taunting someone in her dreams. It's when they were still dating, and his arm is an uncomfortable weight around her waist (possessive, jealous) as he stares and points at two girls across the street and makes rude comments. When Sansa dares to speak up in their defence, he sneers at her, accusing her of being a dyke, and Sansa desperately tells herself he doesn't mean it. She's not a freak. When she begs him to leave he listens, and five minutes later has forgotten about the entire thing, but Sansa hasn't (and won't).

Elinor and Alla's dorm is smaller than Sansa's, or maybe it's just so messy that it looks that way. Sansa doesn't blame them. For the short time she had shared a room with Arya, it was always messy, no matter how much Sansa tried to keep it clean. Eventually she had just given up trying. Elinor apologizes for the mess with an awkward laugh, saying she had meant to clean it but Alla had left her all alone to meet some guy she shares a history class with and Elinor hadn't anticipated having to tidy up two people's messes on her own. Sansa offers to help, and the look of relief that passes over Elinor's face makes her smile.

Elinor puts music on (Sansa will have to get her parents to send her her iPod dock, she's tired of her tinny laptop speakers), and soon they're spending more time singing and dancing and throwing things at each other than actually cleaning. It's fun and free and nothing like being with Margaery. Sansa hates the pop songs Elinor has but she knows them all the same and she sings at the top of her lungs, happiness swelling in her chest.

Later, when they've settled on Elinor's bed and the room is in some semblance of clean, Elinor runs her fingers through Sansa's hair, combing out knots at the base of her skull and behind her ears. It's soothing, Elinor's touch gentle even when she hits snags.

“You should let me braid this for you,” Elinor says, working her fingertips along Sansa's scalp. The light scratches could send her asleep if Elinor kept on long enough. Sansa has to stifle a yawn at the thought, and shifts around to rest her head on Elinor's lap. “It would be absolutely lovely in braids. Probably help with the heat, too.”

Sansa hums, sitting up so Elinor can reach. Elinor's careful not to pull, separating Sansa's hair into parts. There's tugging, but it's gentle, and reminds Sansa of when her hair was just starting to grow long and her mother would braid it to keep it out of her way. Elinor's fingers move quickly. Sansa's curious to know if she's spent a lot of time doing this. Alla's hair doesn't seem like it would take well to braids, but Margaery's, her soft waves, someone like Elinor would be able to do a lot with that.

“There,” Elinor says when she's done. Her hands linger on Sansa's shoulders, right at the curve of her neck. “Beautiful.” A light awkwardness fills the air. Sansa opens her eyes and stares at the wall in front of her. Elinor moves her hands and clears her throat, and Sansa quickly suggests lunch and a movie. Elinor and Alla have a lot of junk foods (there's mac and cheese from across the sea, a lot of noodles), but Sansa manages to make something for them anyway with the noodles and a bag of frozen veggies. Whatever caused the tension, it's faded by the time they both have food in their hands.

Alla comes back late, just as Sansa is getting ready to leave. Her eyes are bright, almost glowing, her face flushed. Her expression dims just slightly when she sees Sansa near the door, checking that she hasn't left anything behind. Her gaze darts to her cousin, still on the sofa, then she smiles, but it doesn't seem entirely genuine. Sansa lifts her bag onto her shoulder.

“Hey,” she says softly. “Good night?”

“Yeah,” Alla replies. “Went great. Totally exhausted, though. You leaving?” Her tone leaves Sansa in no doubt that it's a request (if not an order) more than a question. She nods and says goodbye to Elinor then slips out. The door loudly clicks shut behind her. Sansa lingers, digging around in her purse for her phone. Behind her, she can hear her friends talking, but their voices are too soft for her to hear words, and her gut tells her she wouldn't want to know what they were saying anyway. She hopes whatever it is that's bothering Alla it's nothing to do with her. She didn't make new friends only to lose them over something she didn't even know she'd done.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unless stated otherwise, all the poems that will be featured in this fic were written by my friend Maddie and used with her permission. For the full thing and to see her other works, head over to her tumblr (bettervillains.tumblr.com/tagged/verses). You won't regret it.


	5. Chapter 5

In class on Monday she doesn't have to see Margaery's name to know it's her question that Professor Lannister has displayed on the projector. She feels a sudden wave of sickness so violent that she has to dart towards the door, hand over her mouth, and half jog down the hall to the nearest bathroom, locking herself in a stall. She heaves, but nothing comes up. She leans against the wall, one hand braced against the door and the other clutching at her stomach. The knowledge that she'll see Margaery tomorrow dredges up a dread that Sansa hasn't felt since her first public speaking presentation when she was a freshman. Closing her eyes, she does the breathing Jon taught her, but even when her chest stops contracting the sick twisting in her guts remains.

 

_i am the itch you thought you scratched until_   
_the buzzing all_   
_came flooding back, i am_   
_the call to down the hatch, i am_   
_those matches that you lit, i am_   
_the wounds you licked, the beds you spread, i am_   
_the whiskey burn still turning in your core, i am_   
_the beat and bass and blend of bitter men, i am-_

 

Sansa shuts her book abruptly and resists the urge to chuck it across the room. Instead, she clutches it tightly, watching the soft cover crease under the pressure of her fingertips, then closes her eyes and exhales carefully. She sees Margaery's smile behind the lids, almost as potently as if Margaery is stood in front of her. She doesn't read any more that night. She can't. The words change in her brain and everything is Margaery and her smile and her hair and her eyes.

The worst part is that Margaery is so genuinely kind and friendly that Sansa feels absolutely terrible for acting like a skittish rabbit around her. It's so much less than Margaery deserves, yet the Tyrell girl is stubborn to a fault, waving at Sansa and making small talk at her before the lecture starts, even though Sansa doesn't do anything more than stare at her textbook and listen while willing her heart to stop sounding like ocean water in her ears. Margaery follows her out of the building, tying her hair up (Sansa is jealous of her curls, her's has always been pin straight and the red makes finding clothes that don't clash difficult). There's a light sheen of sweat on her brow. Sansa licks her lips and looks away.

“Melisandre is wonderful, isn't she?” Margaery asks. “Gods, I could listen to her talk all day. Everything she says just feels so important and life changing. It's amazing how much the history texts leave out.”

“Yeah,” Sansa says. Margaery breezes past her into the building and Sansa tries not to inhale her perfume. The Tyrell girl keeps talking during the short ride up, but Sansa isn't paying attention. She's holding her breath, trying not to breathe in flowers and sun. She tries not to look at Margaery's hips either, at her confident, attention demanding stride, and how nice her legs look in her jeans. Her mind is full of thoughts she shouldn't be having. They're not safe. They're not objective. They're dangerous.

Margaery stretches out on the sofa, all long legs and soft lines as she raises her arms above her head. Her back arches, a little groan slipping past her lips that makes Sansa's face go red. She gets water for Margaery again without asking if she wants any and sets it down on the table. Margaery makes a soft “aw” noise at the back of her throat, mouth twisted.

“You're so sweet,” she teases. “I could eat you up.” _Please don't,_ Sansa thinks, sitting and waiting for Margaery to finish drinking ( _don't look_ ). _You're already devouring everything, don't take me, too._ When Margaery opens her books, Sansa is surprised to see notes in her neat cursive along the margins. Margaery grins, satisfied as a cat who got the cream. “I thought if you do it it must be useful.”

“It-it can be,” Sansa says, feeling flattered and warm and frightened all at once. “For studying. Rather than trying to remember.”

“Professor Lannister does talk a lot, doesn't he?” Margaery says, amused. “Not like you. You hardly say anything at all!” Sansa blushes then, embarrassed. She's quite chatty when she gets into it, but Margaery is intimidating in all the wrong ways. “I'm sorry,” Margaery continues. “I've made you feel awkward. Trust me not to know when to shut my mouth.”

“It's fine,” Sansa whispers. Margaery, observant as she is, changes the subject, giving Sansa's mind more poems to think about. Not that they're any better, Sansa muses dully. Her escape is becoming part of her nightmare. She flips past the poem she had been reading the night before, even though it's one they've been assigned, and focuses on the next one in the book. The words burn under her fingers as she brushes them across the page, but it's better than the memory of Margaery's touch.

 

_we must not think, cried the lady fair,_

_to drink of such a poisoned draught —_

_it is too late for us, said he_

_but it is not, insisted she_

_and yet their doom was destined, see_

_love potions make a mess of things_

 

_but wrested wingéd words, i think,_

_could make exchange for dire drink_

_and we will keep our wits to doubt us_

_and perhaps someday they’ll sing about us_

_as bards to beauties — have you heard_

_of fair isolde and tristan bold?_

 

_with wingéd words,_

_we’ll play their roles._

 

"Those are powerful words," Margaery says. "Wrested. Draught." Sansa's stomach twists. She's close again, leaning over so she can see Sansa's book and her notes rather than looking at her own. Their shoulders are pressed tightly, and Sansa can feel the heat of her through two layers of fabric. She does all she can to keep their arms from touching, but it's hard when the sleeves on Margaery's shirt are almost non-existent. "You don't see them often in more contemporary pieces."

"Most people forget they exist, or don't know what they mean."

"I know what they mean," Margaery replies, almost slyly. She's closer now, against Sansa almost like Elinor was over the weekend, but where there was nothing with Elinor there's a shock under Sansa's skin whenever she feels the barest rush of Margaery's breath over her arm. "Tristan and Isolde are like an older Romeo and Juliet, right?"

"No," Sansa says. "I mean, people like to think of it that way, but it's different. It's... bigger, almost. There's war between countries and love potions and affairs and it's not families fighting other families it's one family fighting amongst themselves. The story varies depending on which version you're reading, but in the poetic ones, Tristan is mortally wounded trying to rescue a lady, but when he sends his friend to fetch Isolde-Iseult-there's a mix up with the signal Tristan tells his friend to use, and Tristan ends up dying of grief while Iseult dies swooning over his corpse. Some stories say that two trees grew out of their graves, and that their branches can't be parted..." It's the most she's said to Margaery at once since they met. She clamps her jaw shut and swallows hard, feeling her throat tighten. Margaery is staring evenly at her, eyes unreadable.

"Well, that part's romantic at least," she muses. Sansa manages a nod. She wants to move but she feels frozen, and Margaery is so warm. "The last two lines, then... that's submitting to desire?" Sansa's heart stops. Something about her voice has changed. It sounds rougher. Sansa scoots away and glances at the clock in the corner of her computer screen.

"I'm sorry," she says, and the lies come easier than they should. "I just remembered I've got this huge reading assignment due and I haven't started it at all yet. Do you think you can figure the rest of the questions out on your own?" Margaery watches her for a long moment (Sansa won't look, she refuses to look, but she can feel her eyes), then finally pulls away, sits up straight, and puts her book in her bag. If she knows the real reason, if she sees through Sansa's falseness, she doesn't let it show, just smiles again and stands. Sansa feels like a deer in headlights.

"I'll see you tomorrow, then. Don't forget we've got those reading questions due." Her smile's just as nice as it always is. She swings her bag over her shoulder and fixes her hair. Sansa wonders if it's as soft to the touch as it looks and immediately regrets it, biting the inside of her cheek to distract herself. The pain is harsh enough to sharpen her thoughts. "Have a good night, Sansa." Margaery lets herself out and leaves Sansa to slump against the sofa and run her hands through her hair. Her fingers work at a section of it, creating a braid that's decent but nowhere near as neat as Elinor's. Sansa's always had too much hair to do anything with without help from someone else. Margaery's hair is far nicer. All those waves...

She closes her eyes and shakes her head sharply. She can't think those things. If she doesn't think them they won't be true. Margaery's hair is just hair. Her eyes are just eyes. Her smile is just a smile. There's nothing special about her. Nothing at all. She's just another girl.

 

“Your work continues to impress me, Miss Stark,” Professor Lannister says when Sansa shows up early for class the next day, one of the few who does so consistently. “Tell me, have you ever written anything of your own?” Sansa shakes her head. She loves to read poetry. She loves to dissect it, to scour through books and puzzle out the hidden meanings buried beneath the words, but she could never articulate her feelings. Her life experiences aren't the kind of things she wants exposed so openly. She doesn't want her past mistakes staring up at her.

The poems they're studying hit too close to home. Sansa's torn between crying and hugging her book to her chest, thankful that someone has managed to so cleverly put down everything she feels (or almost everything; she's not gay), and terrified that somehow someone will figure her out. Like Margaery, with her clever, knowing smiles, or Alla with her eyes that don't seem as open and friendly as they used to be.

Margaery, for her part, is about as interested in their poetry during their next session as Sansa is. Her focus is elsewhere, on the television, on her phone. Sansa's happy to let her. It lets her sit further away. She doesn't have to deal with being so close to her, with smelling the flowers in her hair and on her skin. Margaery flicks channels, settled back on Sansa's sofa sipping soda from a plastic cup instead of water, and eventually decides on the news. Sansa doesn't pay too much attention to current events, at least as far as tracking major news networks go, but she recognizes the occasional name. Dany Targaryen is one of them. Out of the major families in Westeros, she's one of the few people who had managed to stay in the spotlight.

“Did you know she came out the other day?” Margaery asks. She looks like she should be smoking a cigarette and drinking champagne when all she _is_ doing is tapping her thumb against her phone and occasionally glancing up at the TV.

“Came out?” Sansa repeats, the meaning completely going over her head until Margaery goes,

“Yeah, said she's gay,” and Sansa's world collapses in on itself. She grips the counter hard, her fingertips whitening. It reverberates in her head; _gay, gay, gay._ _Oh, gods,_ Sansa thinks. She dreads the answer. Margaery's going to hate it. She remembers the look that passed over the Tyrell girl's face when she talked about her brother's boyfriend. She's going to be sick.

“Does it-” her voice sounds weak. She sucks in a breath through her teeth and tries again. “Does it bother you?” Margaery snorts when she laughs. It should be unattractive and it's anything but. She's laughing and Sansa doesn't know if it's good or bad and she can't let go of the counter for fear of falling.

“Of course it doesn't bother me,” Margaery says. “Boys are twats anyway, especially at our age.” And just like that it's gone. The weight is lifted off Sansa's shoulders. The pressure is gone from her chest. Her lungs are filled with air that smells faintly of her laundry detergent and the scent of a new house (not like home, not yet). The sickness that's been churning in her stomach since that first thought those few weeks ago evaporates. She closes her eyes, and slowly her hands relax. “Sansa? Are you all right?” _She doesn't care,_ Sansa thinks. _She doesn't care._

“I'm fine,” she says, turning around and opening her eyes. Margaery is twisted around, half draped over the back of the sofa and looking at her in concern with honey-flecked eyes and Sansa's panic takes on a new form, and the realization settles low and heavy in her stomach like lead, replacing the nausea. It's almost too much to take in all at once. She has a crush. On a girl. Not a silly one like what people say when they like celebrities, but a proper one, like the one she used to have on Joffrey, with all the world-ending importance that crushes always carry. And not just any, silly girl. She smiles, weak and watery, and Margaery turns back to the TV. Margaery will never be any silly girl.

 

“-sssaaa. _Sansa_!” Sansa snaps her head up, rubbing her eyes. It's the third time she's fallen asleep today and the Tyrell cousins are looking at her with a mixture of amusement and sympathy. Elinor smiles at her. “Just because you've already read _Old Gods_ doesn't mean you can completely nod off on us.” Sansa rubs at her eyes and holds in a yawn. The night before had been a rollercoaster, and that was an understatement. She feels like she's been bounced against a wall a few times, and maybe rolled over by a truck. There's no way to explain either of that to Elinor and Alla without admitting what caused her lack of sleep, however, so all Sansa can do is apologize and say she was up late watching TV. Elinor gives her a look. "You mean you were up all night texting someone. Trust me, I know the signs."

"I wasn't texting anyone," Sansa says. Elinor's face relaxes slightly, her eyes softening. Sansa is too tired to read into it that much, but she thinks she sees her friend's shoulders slump, some tension that Sansa wasn't aware of before leaving her muscles. "I was just up late. I think I'm gonna go. You guys can handle this on your own, right? I'll make it up to you."

"Leave us your notes," Alla says, holding her hand out. Sansa doesn't really want to leave her notebook behind, but she does owe them, so she pushes it across the table and zips her bag up with another apology. It doesn't matter much that she's leaving, really. She doesn't have the energy to read in the first place, let alone to pay enough attention to summarize and answer questions and pull out quotes for the report that's due in two weeks (Sansa groans when she remembers). She thinks there's an exam the next Monday as well, which only makes things worse. Three weeks in and she's already starting to break.

Not that it's her fault, she thinks as she slumps across campus, mouth stretching into a yawn behind her hand. If Margaery hadn't said what she did (if she didn't look how she did, if she wasn't so bloody nice), then Sansa would be losing sleep over her and this sudden flip in her emotions from fear that she likes girls to fear that she likes entirely the wrong girl altogether. It's really not at all fair. Sansa's had enough trouble in her love life without throwing something like this into the works. All she wants is for her life to be easy and normal. She wants to finish school and go travel, or teach, or both, not deal with the sort of thing that only happens in the TV dramas that Arya makes fun of her for watching.

Her phone vibrates in her pocket, startling Sansa out of her thoughts. She fishes it out with one hand while letting herself into her room with the other. The number is one she doesn't recognize, but has the same area code as Alla and Elinor. Sansa knows who it is before she even reads the message.

_Hey begged your number off Elinor, wanted to check up on you. You were acting funny last night everything ok? - Marg_

Her stomach is doing somersaults and her heart beating out a samba. Sansa scolds herself. It's stupid to get so excited over a text. Besides, all Margaery is doing is what any other good friend would do; checking up on Sansa after she had what was an off night (although it was so much more than that).

_I'm fine, just tired. Up late._

The reply is instant. _That's a shame. I was hoping I could come over. Just remembered I have a huge exam (already!) tomorrow and could really use help studying._ It's a bad idea, Sansa tells herself, staring at the words for so long she can see them when she closes her eyes. She sighs. She's exhausted. She can't think straight (literally), but she can't say no either. She wonders if Margaery counted on that. Even as she replies in the affirmative, Sansa firmly tells herself she needs to get better at refusing people. She could never refuse Joffrey and that caused her a whole mess of trouble. She can only hope that helping Margaery study will only require minimal effort on her part. She can open and book and read out answers, but ask her to have a philosophical conversation right now and Margaery would have better luck talking to a sloth.

Gratefulness is written all over Margaery's face when Sansa opens the door to let her in an hour later. She's had some coffee, but the high is temporary and the crash inevitable, and she can already feel it starting. Margaery bustles in, apologizing for springing this on Sansa with such short notice. Sansa rubs at her eyes and smiles sleepily and shuts and locks the door while Margaery prattles on about her exam and how she should be used to this after four years of uni but it still annoys the ever living shit out of her.

“What's it in?” Sansa asks. Margaery holds up a textbook. Politics. Sansa bites her lip, wondering why now, after generations, a Tyrell is interested in getting into government. Margaery's certainly clever enough, Sansa knows that without a doubt. If anyone could do any good in this country it would be her. Everyone she meets she charms, Sansa included, and she at least _seems_ more genuine than everyone else. She wishes she had more coffee. She's too tired to deal with Margaery looking so effortlessly pretty at 8PM, curled up in the corner of the sofa and patting the cushion next to her.

“Sansa, are you sure you're okay?” Margaery asks. Her smile's gone, lips twisted to the side and her brow crinkled in concern. Sansa nods quickly and sits next to her, grabbing Margaery's textbook off the table.

“What do you need me to do?” she asks. Margaery leans over and flips through the pages. Her hair is down, brushing against Sansa's arm as it falls over her shoulder and gods it feels like silk on her skin. Sansa licks her lips.

“Here,” Margaery says. She sits up, putting much needed space between them, and twists around until she's resting against the arm of the sofa with her knees pulled up to her chest and her chin propped on top. “It's mostly multiple choice, funnily enough, but you can't really help me with whatever mini essay questions get thrown in at the end. At least this is something. Mix them up, though, really challenge me.”

So Sansa does, trying not to let her voice shake as she asks question after question. Margaery gets them all right. Sansa doesn't know why she's so worried about the exam in the first place, she's obviously brilliant. _Is there anything she_ isn't _good at?_ Sansa thinks hopelessly. Smart, pretty, funny, rich, she's every boy's dream (and more than a few girls, Sansa's sure, although the suddenness of her own crush still makes her feel like she's been flattened by a steam roller). She has absolutely no reason to be spending any time with a loser like Sansa and yet here she is, sitting on her couch again, asking for help with something else. Sansa's paranoid. Afraid. Nervous. She hates it, but she keeps coming back for more.

She stops trying to hide her yawns after half an hour of questioning. Margaery's laughing softly, and even though Sansa knows it's at her it's not offensive or cruel. It's a gentle teasing that Sansa tiredly thinks she could get used to. It reminds her of her brothers, of when she was little and trying to stay up late with Robb and Jon and one of them ended up having to carry her to bed as she valiantly fought against sleep. Margaery shuts the book and moves it off Sansa's lap.

“We should hang out,” she says, smiling again. Sansa will never get sick of seeing it. “When you're not so obviously exhausted, of course. Maybe this weekend? Unless my cousins plan on dragging you out into club world again. I know how they can be, trust me.”

“Yeah,” Sansa says, and it's the wrong answer but she can't help herself.

“Great,” Margaery replies, sounding entirely too pleased, and collects her book, shoving it into her bag as she stands. Sansa moves to follow, but Margaery waves her away and slings her bag onto her shoulder. “Go to sleep,” she says. It's an order, but a gentle one, and Sansa is far too inclined to follow it. “Let me know tomorrow if it's all right for me to still show up.” Of course it's all right, Sansa wants to say, but all of her thinking ability short circuits the second Margaery's lips touch her cheek. It's gentle and chaste but it feels like an eternity and Sansa's face goes as red as her hair. “Thanks for helping me out. Night.”

“Night...” Sansa says weakly. Margaery tosses her hair over her shoulder when she turns. A few seconds later the door clicks shut and Sansa lets out a heavy breath she hadn't realized had been caught in her lungs. She shoves her hands through her hair, wincing when they catch in a knot at the back of her head and slouches against the back of the sofa. This has to stop. This crush, it has to stop. Or at least, _at least,_ for once let her like someone who isn't so deceptively charming, someone who's every action she won't doubt.

She falls asleep thinking about the kiss, remembering Margaery's lips, soft and dry and warm, brushing over her cheek. The spot still burns. When she dreams, it's Margaery leaning over to look at Sansa's book. It's the silk of her hair and the heat of her lips, and the teasing in her voice. It's everything Sansa wants and everything she fears in an endless loop until her alarm startles her back to the waking world. It stays with her when she showers, a strange reluctance pulling at her chest when she washes her face. Her fingers linger on her cheek, brushing where Margaery kissed. She meets her own eyes in the mirror and sighs with a shake of her head. She can control this, she knows she can. She needs to stop it before it gets too far out of hand and she rushes headlong towards her own destruction.

 


	6. Chapter 6

Margaery is waiting for her outside class when Sansa gets there, hungry from forgetting to eat lunch. She's greeted with a smile and a wave and Sansa half-expects (half wants) a hug to follow, but one never arrives. Nor is there another kiss. Margaery heads inside, holding the door open for her, and picks a different seat that day, sitting directly in front of Sansa when the seat next to her proves already taken. It's an entirely new temptation. When the lecture starts and Margaery's attention is focused, it's hard for Sansa to do the same. If she leans forward she can smell Margaery's perfume, and there's curls escaping from the clip holding her hair from her face that Sansa yearns to reach out and touch.

It's dangerous, her being so close. Sansa can stare at the back of her head without worry of being seen, and she's so out of focus that when Melisandre asks her a direct question (unusual for her), Sansa has no idea until she notices that half the class is looking at her. She stutters, trying to think, but all she can think of is Margaery. Melisandre looks more amused than annoyed, but Sansa is still embarrassed, and slinks in her seat when the professor turns her attention to someone else.

Margaery twists in her seat to look at her, one brow cocked curiously. "What's that all about?" she asks quietly. Sansa wants to lean forward and say she can't hear her, just as an excuse to be closer. "Are you still tired?"

"Just zoned out," Sansa whispers back. It's true, even if she doesn't want to admit it. "I have an exam on Monday. Stressed." Margaery accepts the answer and turns back around, leaving Sansa to struggle with her thoughts again. She forces herself to be diligent, pen scribbling notes across the paper on her desk.

The lecture drags on. It's fascinating, of course, the War of the Five Kings is a period of history that has always interested Sansa, and the women of the era more so (it's amazing how so many of them managed to accomplish so much in a world where men held almost all the power), but she wants to leave. The problem is she isn't sure if she wants to so she can spend time alone with Margaery, or so she can escape from the Tyrell girl's bewitching presence.

"I can just go home, if you'd like," Margaery says after, fixing her hair. She slips the clip between her teeth, holding it while she scrapes her curls back and up, twisting them around before securing them again. It's done in seconds, leaving Sansa amazed at how easily she can manage her hair when Sansa, though hers isn't much longer, has days when she can hardly get a brush through it. "Maybe you just need a weekend of relaxation. Or at least a night of it." A night spent alone is far less desirable than a night with Margaery. Sansa knows it and she hates it, but any bit of time that Margaery is willing to spend in her company Sansa swallows up like she's dying of thirst.

"No," she says. She's warm, but she can't tell if it's Margaery making her feel it or if it's the weather. "You need help, and the poetry will... help me, too, I think. It's amazing how therapeutic it can be sometimes."

Margaery hums, smiling. "There are other forms of therapy, too. Tea, good food, hot baths... Massages. Sex." Sansa drops her keys, eyes going wide. Margaery's laugh peals through the air. She stoops to pick up Sansa's fallen keys and unlocks the building door. "I'm sorry," she says, not sounding sorry at all. "Sometimes I say far too much."

“It's fine,” Sansa says, but it comes out more a squeak than actual words and only adds to her embarrassment. Not that sex itself is embarrassing, but thinking about sex around Margaery leads down roads that Sansa definitely does not want to go anywhere near (at least not now, not while Margaery is so close). She's not naïve by any means, at least not about that, but hearing Margaery mention it so openly and casually when she was brought up in a family where matters like that were discussed behind closed doors if they were discussed at all is shocking.

She lets Margaery pick which poem the pour over this time. Margaery protests and argues (weakly), saying that if Sansa really doesn't feel well she can go, or they can do something else, but Sansa refuses. Giving herself something to do is better than sitting around watching a movie or a TV show. They won't hold her attention like Margaery can. Prose, though, words and verses and the opportunity to analyse and discuss, to direct her passions at something else, that she can handle. Sansa stretches out and closes her eyes, listening to the dry rustle of pages as Margaery thumbs through her book, and the soft sigh of her breathing in the quiet between them.

 

_If I cannot read the braille of your goosebumps,_   
_The trenches of your palms,_   
_The morse code of your eyelids flutter_   
_(dash-dot-dash-dash, dot, dot-dot-dot…)_   
_If I cannot feel the breath from your lungs,_   
_The sweat on your brow, the thrum of your pulse_   
_As it thunders beneath my fingertips, well,_   
_Do not fall for me._

 

Sansa's chest clenches, tightening further and further with each word. She sits on her hands, shoving them beneath her thighs to keep from gripping the sofa.

 

_Beg your affection to defect_   
_Hurriedly in the night, when the guards have dozed,_   
_Away-without-love, honorably charged to rust,_   
_Round still chambered, in the holster of your ribs —_   
_Find someone who will take, with a cloth and gentle hands_   
_That precious weapon, and clean it well,_   
_Whose hands tremble only with the earth —_

 

She tries to stop listening to the words. The words hurt. They strike too close to home. It's ridiculous how fast this crush has grown. Its size seems to double with every passing minute and Sansa is powerless to stop it. She inhales softly (ignores Margaery's sweet perfume), and holds. Her ribs expand, leaving her heart room to pound instead of suffocate. She lets her eyes open. Margaery's curled in the corner of the sofa again, almost as though it's _her_ spot, as though she's claimed it without caring that it means she's now a permanent fixture in Sansa's home. She's let her hair down, the clip in her lap and her hair curling gently over her shoulder, spilling over her fingers where she's cradling her head in her palm. She's beautiful. Sansa watches her lips move, forming the syllables that strike so acutely at Sansa's very being.

“Sansa?” Margaery asks. She's not looking, dark eyes still focused on the book spread across her legs. Sansa hazily realizes the poem is done. She can't remember the last half of it, only the husk of Margaery's voice. “Do you like anyone?” Sansa's heart seizes. She clears her throat and sits up straight, tucking her hair behind her ear. Margaery still doesn't look, even when Sansa hesitates to answer. There's a weight to the air around them.

“No,” Sansa says softly. She watches Margaery carefully, looking for anything, a flicker of an eyelash, a twitch of a finger, but there's nothing. Whatever Margaery's reaction, she keeps it hidden far better than Sansa would ever be able to.

“That's a shame,” the Tyrell girl replies, and it's as if nothing happened. She's smiling and closing her book, letting it fall into her bag. “I'm sure you'll find someone. You're lovely.” She pushes to her feet. Sansa wants to reach out and touch her arm but she's frozen. “I should let you rest. Let's go out tomorrow night, yeah? Us and my cousins. There's nothing like a night of drinking and dancing to completely wipe you out, and you look like you could use it.”

“Sounds great,” Sansa mumbles in reply. She ignores how her heart skips, how her stomach flutters. She feels skittish again, frightened at having her secret nearly exposed.

“Great,” Margaery replies. There's no kiss this time. No hug. Margaery just smiles and picks up her bag. “I'll text you the details.” And then she's gone. Only then does Sansa realize exactly what the details of a night out with Margaery entail. If it's anything like going out with Elinor and Alla she's screwed, and something tells Sansa that it'll only be more wild with Margaery in the mix. She knows how family can be, and the three Tyrell's mixed with booze is a recipe for disaster, and Sansa's the final ingredient.

 _You can always say no,_ she thinks, leaving her bag and her books where they lie and walking to her desk. She types a quick email to her parents, being extra careful about what she says about Margaery and her cousins, and everything Sansa finds herself getting up to that doesn't have a positive effect on her schooling. She's sure her parents will be happy to hear that she's finally made some proper friends considering how alone she's been since Jeyne left, but they don't need to know anything more than that. Thinking about them finding out about her crush on Margaery starts a panic in her chest again. They're far away, Sansa reminds herself. There's no other Starks here, no one who even knows her family. There's no chance of them finding out anything unless Sansa tells someone, and she doesn't plan on doing that ever (or at least for a very very long time). Besides, this crush might just be temporary, and in a couple weeks she'll run into some cute guy out getting coffee and forget all about it. The thought is reassuring while it lasts.

Sansa stays up too late (all-nighters were never her thing, but it's well past 3 by the time she goes to bed) and sleeps like the dead that night. When she finally wakes up, it's midday and she's groggy and starving and has a bad taste in her mouth. It feels like half a hangover without the fun of having had a drink. Through blurry, half-closed eyes, she can see her phone blinking with an unread message on her side table. Sansa throws her arm across the bed and gropes for it. The sudden bright light against the darkness of her room hurts her eyes. She winces and squints at the screen as she navigates to her inbox.

 _Meeting at Crimson at 9. You're gonna love it. Be ready at 8 for me to pick you up! - Marg_ A sudden burst of nerves completely devours Sansa's hunger. She doesn't know anything about this club except that it's not the one that she went to with Margaery's cousins. Out of curiosity, and still waiting for her brain to wake up the rest of the way, she looks it up, but the site, while sleek, doesn't give Sansa any information. It looks nice enough. She browses a bit and winces at the drinks menu. Expensive. She'll only be able to afford a few. Sansa drops her phone onto the bed with a sigh and rolls herself back up in her blankets. There's no desire to move in her bones, only a heavy tiredness that threatens to send her back to sleep. She lets it, eyes drifting closed again.

This time, she's woken up by a loud ringing next to her ear. Sansa's heart is in her throat when she jolts awake, her breathing harsh. She waits a handful of seconds until her heart rate is normal again and gropes around in her blankets for her phone. There's a missed call, the one that Sansa wasn't coherent enough to answer, but no voice mail. Sansa's about to check who it's from when there's another bleep and a text message.

_Get up lazy bones! I know you read my other message. It's almost 3! - Marg_

“Shit,” Sansa rushes out, shoving her hand through her hair. It gets caught in a tangle and yanks harshly. Sansa yelps and winces, carefully untangling her fingers. With one hand she rubs at her eyes and with the other she feels for the knot. It'll take her ages to untangle. She must have been rolling in her sleep. Her phone beeps again. _Sansa if you don't reply I'm going to show up and drag you out of bed._ Sansa sends a _ha ha_ in reply and tosses her phone on her bed. Margaery can wait until she's showered. She needs to wake up fully before she can think about tonight.

Her hunger is back by the time she finishes. Taking things a step at a time helps. Food first. And water. Then she can worry about the rest of the day. It's a good thing Margaery woke her up when she did. The grogginess is gone by the time she gets out of the shower, hair wrapped up in a towel to try. There's no messages on her phone, no more missed calls. Sansa checks the time. 3:30. She'll need half an hour to dry her hair properly and straighten any kinks out, and probably another hour to pick out something to wear, if not longer. It was difficult enough to find something to wear going out with Elinor and Alla, and Crimson looks a lot posher than where they had gone the other week. Sansa runs over her inventory of dresses in her mind, wondering which one would be the most appropriate.

Over the afternoon, her nerves start to build up again. It does take her longer than an hour to get ready, most of it spent on picking out the right dress and a comfortable pair of flats (not heels, she's tall enough as it is), and the rest making sure her hair looks right and covering her bathroom vanity in make up as she picks through her collection, looking for what will compliment her outfit the most. It's always been a pain with her hair, but she manages. Her dress is the shortest one she has but it still goes almost to her knees, and hugs her tight. At home she would need a jacket to put over it, but even the nights in King's Landing are too mild for that. She's loosely curled her hair and brushed her eyelids with blue. In the end, she thinks she looks pretty good.

She's nothing compared to Margaery Tyrell. Southron fashion has always been revealing, Sansa knows that, but this is something completely different. The dip in the front of Margaery's dress is so low Sansa's surprised she's not falling out of it, but then again, it's hugging her curves far too tightly for that. She's taller than Sansa remembers her being, too (heels, she registers distantly, and is glad she forwent her own). There's green and gold around her eyes and it's making the flecks of honey in them pop and Sansa can't breathe. Her head spins. She grabs onto the door frame to steady herself as her knees tremble.

"Wow," she hears Margaery say. When her eyes focus on the Tyrell girl's face again she's smirking, lips twisted sideways. "You clean up well." She's teasing, but it's a compliment all the same, and Sansa feels her face go as red as her hair, thankful that her foundation and blush hide at least some of the colour from Margaery's ever curious, ever scrutinizing gaze. "Well? Are you going to get your bag or are you going to leave me standing on your threshold all night?" Sansa apologizes and snatches her purse up from the kitchen counter. Margaery steps back to let her out and waits patiently while Sansa double checks she has her phone and ID and locks up. When she turns, Margaery's smirk has faded into a plain smile, and she's offering Sansa her arm.

"Where are your cousins?" Sansa asks, taking it.

Margaery pulls her down the hall. "We're going to get them now. I told Alla to call a cab, but I'm not sure she was listening on the phone. Not that it matters. Pretty girls like us? We can have any taxi we want in front of us with a snap of our fingers." Margaery makes Sansa _feel_ pretty. Feel confident. Intimidated, too, but it's a rush, a thrill, being in Margaery's presence.

Elinor opens the door for them and stares, her hello dying on her lips. Sansa fidgets under her gaze and glances over her shoulder into the apartment where Alla is bustling around until she bundles her cousin out of the apartment and shuts the door behind them. Elinor looks embarrassed when she realizes she's been staring, but Sansa catches her looking at her and Margaery as they leave the dorm building. They don't have to wait long for the cab, at least. Alla opts to sit in the front with the driver while Sansa ends up squeezed between Margaery and Elinor in the back. The inside of the car suddenly smells like four different perfumes. Margaery's bare leg burns against Sansa's where they press, and on her other side Elinor's is firm and warm. No matter how she wiggles she's touching someone, and she really needs to get a drink in her before she bursts into flame.

The club is halfway across the city. The ride isn't bad in late Friday traffic, but it's hardly a short one. Not being engaged in any direct conversation leaves Sansa trying to ignore the bodies being jostled into hers with every bump and brake, and every other turn has her sliding sideways into either Elinor or her cousin. Sansa vastly prefers the former even as her body yearns for the latter. _Just ignore it,_ she thinks. _Ignore them both._ She's relieved when the drive is finally over, and Sansa steps out into tepid night air and the sound of music. Margaery is right behind her, her hand touching Sansa's back as she steadies herself.

Inside it's easier. The music is different. It's deeper, the dark, broody dubstep that Jon likes to listen to. Sansa thinks she recognizes the song, and a sting of want for home pokes at her chest. She holds her breath until it passes and glances around for her friends. Elinor and Alla are already gone, but Margaery is still next to her, watching. For a split second Sansa sees a look in her eyes, but before she can figure out what it is it's gone, and Margaery is grabbing her wrist and pulling her towards the bar. Sansa's wallet is crying already, but before she can get a bill Margaery has already ordered and slid her card across the bar.

“You don't have to do that!” Sansa half-shouts over the noise. Margaery shrugs and doesn't reply until she has two glasses in her hand. She presses one of them into Sansa's grasp.

“Consider it my official welcoming of you to the city,” she says, and lifts her glass. “Cheers.” Sansa's left little choice but to sling it back. It burns and she coughs, pressing the back of her hand against her mouth to cover it. Margaery is laughing. She reaches up, and pushes Sansa's hair behind her ear. Sansa's blushing again, she can feel it, and maybe it's just wistful thinking, her imagination playing with her mind, but she thinks Margaery's fingers linger against the edge of her jaw. There's no time to reflect on it, though, not when Margaery throws back another shot with an ease that makes Sansa wonder if she feels the heat of it at all, and leaves Sansa to finish off the other before weaving through the crowd in Margaery's wake.

The alcohol is already working on her, fizzling through her veins. She should have had more to eat. At this rate she won't be able to handle more than a couple more drinks without completely losing control, and she's sure that her friends are going to be having far more than that. Alla's gone again, not that Sansa cares. She's focused on Margaery, colours flashing across her dark hair and tanned skin. Elinor is with them, though, appearing out of the swarm of people to Sansa's left and latching onto her. Sansa tries to follow Margaery, but when she looks again the Tyrell girl is gone. Sansa stops in her tracks and lets Elinor pull her into a dance, hands lightly linked. She looks for a few seconds, hoping to catch a glance of Margaery in the crowd, then gives up and lets the music take over.

There's more drinks. Way more drinks. Far more than the two that Sansa thought she could take. She sees the empty glasses in front of her, sees her laughing friends, feels herself laughing but she can't remember what's so funny. Alla has a guy with her. She's sat in his lap, his hand on her thigh, up under the hem of her skirt. Margaery says something about another round. Half an hour ago Sansa would have said no but now she cheers with the rest of the table and watches her go, watches her hips sway, the muscles in her legs tense and release... Elinor is talking. Sansa blinks, her mind fuzzy, and sits properly in her chair. Alla and her man are kissing.

“-retty, Sansa.” The sound of her name claims her attention. Sansa blinks and turns her head to look at Elinor, leaning much closer than she had been a minute ago.

“What?” Sansa asks dumbly. Her throat is dry from the drinks.

“I said you're really pretty,” Elinor repeats. She's looking at Sansa oddly again, almost the same way Margaery had before the drinking started. Sansa's heart stutters. There's a logical conclusion to this, Sansa knows that much, but it would mean that Elinor... and that's not possible. No one likes Sansa. They're just drunk, that's all. Elinor leans closer, her fingertips brushing against the side of Sansa's leg. Then Margaery is back with the tray of drinks she sets down a bit too hard on the table, sloshing liquid down the sides of the glasses. She's looking at them, at Sansa and Elinor, gaze dark and unreadable.

“Sansa,” she says, her voice rough. It's the drinks, Sansa thinks, repressing a shudder. “Dance with me.” Elinor pulls away. Sansa doesn't look at her, just accepts the shot that Margaery gives her and tries not to drop the glass when their fingers brush. She doesn't feel the burn any more. Margaery tips her head back and downs her own drink like it's water. Sansa stares at her throat, her skin damp with sweat. She's being led again, away from the table and into the throng of people, right in the middle where everyone's so tightly packed that Sansa can hardly move. She licks her lips, tasting lime and tequila and salt.

Margaery is almost as tall as her in her heels. Her gaze is steady when she takes Sansa's hands and puts them on her hips. Sansa's knees tremble. And then they're dancing, swaying, Margaery's hips rolling and her arms draping over Sansa's shoulders. It starts as a heat, burning gentle and low deep in the pit of Sansa's stomach, like the embers of a campfire. Each rock of Margaery's hips stokes it, adding more and more fuel as it spreads up and shoots down, twisting, settling in an aching longing between Sansa's legs. It's too much.

She pulls away. The heat is too much. The music is too much. The alcohol is too much. Margaery is too much. Far too much. Margaery reaches but her touch doesn't connect. Sansa thinks she hears her name, but she can't be sure over the noise surrounding her. She needs to get out. Her heart is in her throat, she feels lightheaded. She can't breathe. People brush against her as she shoves her way off the floor, following the big red exit signs until she hits a door that lets her out into the alley next to the club. There's people kissing a few feet down, someone else is on their phone. It smells faintly like sick. Sansa moves towards the street. The air is clearer there. It's brighter. She can feel the rush of traffic whipping at her dress and hair whenever a car drives by. It helps. Sansa gulps in breaths and leans against the closest wall. She feels sick, and probably looks it, too, but not the kind of sick that means she'll be emptying her stomach onto the pavement. She runs a hand through her hair.

"Sansa." She straightens up, untangling her fingers from the waves that are more natural than not now that she's covered in sweat. She half expects to see Margaery, but their voices are completely different, and it's Elinor who stands in front of her, frowning. "Saw you run out. You all right?" Sansa nods. An answer is stuck in her throat. Her mouth feels dry and thick. She clears her throat. "Come back inside. Have another drink." Elinor grabs her hand. Sansa lets herself be led back inside, wincing at the sudden influx of noise. Margaery is nowhere in sight. Alla is still at the table, her friend gone, and her lipstick smudged. She looks half asleep. Elinor nudges her and she sits up, going to rub at her eyes before remembering her make up.

"Are we heading out soon?" she asks over the music. Elinor shrugs and sits Sansa down and hands her another drink with a smile.

"Bottoms up, babe," she says, and something about her voice on the pet name makes Sansa's stomach twist. She downs the shot without questioning it.

 


	7. Chapter 7

She hasn't felt so shitty in years. There's not even any light, but it feels like the sun is shining right in her eyes, even though they're still shut. There's a dull throb at the base of her skull and her stomach is twisting, and all around her eyes and temples is sharp, sharp pain like someone is tapping a nail into her skull. She curls up, pulling the blankets over her head (blankets, she's in bed) and groans. Gods, how much did she have to drink last night? She hardly remembers anything. There were shots, and some dancing, then more shots, she thinks, but everything after that is a blur of half-memories and patches of complete blankness. Drink, she thinks. She needs water, that's the reason she feels so shit. If she can just get out of bed...

It takes longer than it should. Every inch she moves makes her feel like she's eighty years old and her bones are breaking but she manages it, squinting into the darkness of her room and feeling around with her hands. She shuffles, trying not to bump into anything and make the whole situation even worse. As she fumbles for the doorknob, she chances a sniff at her shoulder and recoils. She reeks. A shower is definitely the next thing on the list.

It's dark in the main room, too, the blinds shut over the window. Sansa fills a glass to the brim with water from the sink and drinks it as she retreats into her room again. Nothing could have prepared her for how bright the bathroom lights would be. She squeezes her eyes shut until the pain passes, clutching the edge of the vanity, then sucks air into her lungs as she opens her eyes again and turns on the shower. She keeps it cool and quick, washing sweat out of her hair and off her skin.

She doesn't even remember having changed, but when she steps out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel and feeling marginally more human, her dress is in a heap on the floor and her flats are in two different places, one by the door and the other by the bed. _Never again_ , Sansa tells herself. She can't afford to be getting so trashed when the school year has barely started. Food is the next order of business. After she's pulled on clothes that don't smell like sweat and booze and thrown everything into a heap to be washed later, Sansa piles her hair up on top of her head with a clip and pads out to the kitchen.

A soft sigh and the muffled shift of a couch cushion startles Sansa so much that she drops her mug onto the counter with a clatter, spilling tea everywhere. She whips around, nearly falling as her head swims and her vision goes funny at the edges. How could she not have noticed before? She'd been sleeping- _showering_ -with another girl in her house and not just any girl, oh no. Sansa wonders if the gods enjoy playing tricks on her. It couldn't have been Elinor, or even Alla, or some random that in her drunken glee Sansa thought fit to bring home. No. Margarey Tyrell is the one sprawled across her sofa, half covered by one of Sansa's sheets and wearing Sansa's clothes. They're small on her, but they fit Margaery right, the faded grey wolf that's always been house Stark's sigil stretched across her chest. Her make-up is smudged and her hair is a mess of spray and gel, but she's still beautiful, even when she looks like a wreck.

Sansa's too hungover for this. She can't stop herself staring as Margaery rolls over again, hiding her face against the back of the sofa. Sansa knows that she should wake her up and tell her to go home, but Margaery looks so comfortable, so _right._ Sansa doesn't have the heart to do it. She rights her mug and wipes up the tea that spilled, then turns the kettle back on and waits for the water to start bubbling again. She has another cup ready by the time Margaery stirs again, and Sansa wordlessly pours tea for her, too. Margaery groans. It's comforting. Knowing that the girl isn't perfect after all makes her human.

“Where-” Margaery croaks, twisting around. Sansa watches as she realizes where she is, then slowly turns her head until her eyes find Sansa. “Oh. Sansa.” She smiles. Sansa licks her lips. “Gods, I need a shower.”

“I made tea,” Sansa replies. "You'll feel better." Margaery hums. Sansa gets the feeling she deals with hangovers a lot better than Sansa does. She wonders how many times the girl has woken up in a home that's not her own (not that Sansa thinks she's a slut, she's just curious). She shuffles over, one mug in each hand, and holds Margaery's out for her. Margaery thanks her earnestly, cradling the bottom of the cup against her chest before shifting upright enough that she can drink without spilling it all down her front.

"Gods, I needed that," Margaery finally says, half her tea gone and an almost languid look on her face. "This is amazing." Her eyes are clearer when she opens them, her cheeks a bit pink. "Do you mind if I impose a bit longer? I could really do with a wash." Sansa silently gestures towards the bathroom. Margaery's smile is small, but genuine and sweet. "Cheers." Sansa vacates the spot Margaery leaves, warmed by her night spent on the sofa, and sinks back, sighing. She hears the bathroom door shut and the shower start and lets her eyes close.

She tries to remember the previous night again, screwing her face up in concentration even though it hurts her still throbbing head, but there's nothing. Sansa huffs and opens her eyes. Maybe it'll come back to her later, when she doesn't feel tired and sick and like she was driven over by a truck. Twice. It bugs her though, like a persistent itch that she can't reach, but there's nothing she can do about it. She draws the blanket over her legs (it'll need a wash; it smells faintly of alcohol), and curls up in the corner of the sofa, one hand holding her mug and the other at her brow, fingers massaging her aching temple.

There's noise coming from the bathroom, drifting through the thing walls. Humming, Sansa thinks. No, soft singing. Margaery is singing. Sansa's chest warms. How she feels good enough to be singing Sansa doesn't know (showers hold some kind of mystical power that she doesn't even pretend to try and understand), but she is and it's beautiful. Just like everything else. Sansa pulls her legs closer to her chest. She needs to get Margaery out. She doesn't have her wits about her, not fully, and she needs them at full strength to be alone around the Tyrell girl, or else she doesn't know what she'll do. She'll say something stupid, do something stupid, and she'll ruin everything, just like Joff always made her feel she did, just like she always told Arya she did.

The singing stops. The shower stops. Sansa breathes in and out and listens. She hears Margaery clear her throat, a loud sigh, the door opening, and footsteps coming towards her. She steels herself, eyes closing for a just a moment, before she opens them again in time for Margaery to round the edge of the sofa, still in Sansa's clothes, her hair dark and wet against her back and her skin a faint pink. She bends to pick up her dress and her shoes and smiles. Sansa's thoughts go blank.

"Thanks for the tea," Margaery says. Her voice is still raspy, soft like the rustle of leaves when the wind sends them tumbling across the ground. "And letting me crash. I'm guessing you'll want your clothes back as well, so just let me-"

"No," Sansa says quickly, shaking her head so hard it feels like it's going to roll right off her neck. It sends a stab of pain through her skull but she doesn't care. "No, it's fine. You can give them back on Tuesday." Margaery watches her carefully, then twists away to grab her clutch from off the table and fish her phone out. She dials for a cab, speaking quietly but clearly into the receiver. Sansa presses her fingers against the warmth of her mug and bites the inside of her cheek.

"They won't be long," Margaery says, still holding her phone. She hesitates, then drops it back into her purse. "I have a question, though, before I leave..." She looks almost nervous. It unsettles Sansa, makes her stomach twist in a way that almost has her running for the bathroom, and her heart starts to thump against her ribs. "Do you remember anything from last night?" She looks hopeful, Sansa thinks. There's a spark in her eyes that she's either too tired or too hungover to hide and it almost breaks Sansa's heart when she shakes her head. Even if she could, she's not sure she would want to tell. Whatever it is she's forgetting has to be important. It _feels_ important. The spark fades. Margaery's smile dims. “Oh. Okay, well, I'll see you around. Thanks for the clothes.” Sansa's left alone in a quiet flat, nursing a headache and a stomach ache, and inhaling the faint scent of roses among the stink of alcohol on the edge of the blanket.

She doesn't get any work done that day. She doesn't even study for her exam on Monday. The only times she leaves the sofa is to get more tea and subsequently use the bathroom, fetch her laptop, and to keep feeding herself biscuits while watching Netflix and huddling under her sheet. She falls asleep at some point, although she doesn't realize it until she's woken up. It's late, and her stomach growling alerts her to needing food. _I should get a toaster_ , she thinks sleepily, buttering a piece of bread while she waits for water to boil to make rice. As she eats, chopping up vegetables to compliment her rice, memories filter back.

It's funny, Sansa thinks, how human brains work. She remembers dancing, _a lot_ of dancing, which is doubtless the reason why her feet are so sore. She remembers the feel of hands on her neck and shoulders, but she doesn't remember who they belong to. She sighs, curling up on the couch again with a hot bowl in her hands and water instead of tea. Maybe she just isn't meant to know.

Sleep comes easy that night, as bushed as Sansa is from a day of being sick. With it come pleasant dreams, for once; a warm hand in hers, a laugh that sounds familiar but she can't place from where. She wakes up slowly, dozing for another half hour after the dreams have faded with morning, and fumbling for the lamp on her side table.

Her neglect the day before means she spends most of her morning studying and steadily going through a pot of coffee. Her phone sits dark and silent next to her. Sansa keeps checking it just in case she missed her obnoxiously loud ring tone, but there's never anything. No missed calls, no texts, not from Elinor or Alla and not from Margaery. The last is the most disappointing, and Sansa hates it. She hates the way a simple smile or a hello makes her stomach do flips, and she hates how not hearing anything makes her feel like she did something wrong. It's like Joffrey all over again (but it's different, part of her insists, it's so different), and she won't stand for it.

She wants to text, but she restrains herself, and instead re-reads chapters of _Old Gods_ she already knows by heart until her eyes want to bleed like the old weirwood trees. She ignores her phone. She won't text Margaery. She won't. Eventually she texts Elinor instead, but it's hours before she receives a reply, and when she does it's short and leaves nothing for her to build on. Sansa gets the distinct feeling in her stomach that she's missing something.

To keep her mind off of it she tidies up, piling days worth of dirty laundry into her hamper (and staving off the embarrassment that rises when she realizes Margaery saw her mess). The blanket the Tyrell girl used is still spread across Sansa's couch. It's convenient, she tells herself as she hoists her basket up and glances at it on her way out of the flat. It has absolutely nothing to do with the faded scent of Margaery's perfume and the memory of the fabric caressing her skin. Sansa leaves it behind again, refusing to think about it.

It's a quiet Sunday in the hall. Most people are probably passed out or suffering hangovers, Sansa thinks. Her feet make almost no sound on the carpet either. Some doors have soft music drifting from them, or the muffled sound of voices, but Sansa can't make out anything clear. She takes the stairs instead of the elevator, wanting to stretch her legs.

There's a washer free, at least, and by the time it's done there should be a dryer open as well. Sansa dumps her laundry in with as little detergent as she can and presses buttons until the machine starts. It's loud and rickety but it'll get the job done. Sansa sets her basket on top and slips her bag of laundry cash into the pocket of her hoodie. On her walk back she sets a timer on her phone.

She thinks about Margaery's face, staring at the same passage in her book without seeing what's written on the page, legs extended under her spare blanket. She wants to curl up under it but if she does that she'll smell Margaery. It'll fade, she tells herself. It's just a crush. Most of them dissipate in a couple weeks, or a month. She can handle a month. Maybe. Her phone beeps, and Sansa tosses her book away to switch her clothes to the dryer and reset the timer.

There's nothing like the feel of fresh, warm clothes, even in the heat of King's Landing. At home, Sansa waited eagerly for when her laundry would be done and she could shove cold toes into hot, fuzzy socks and bundle up in sweatpants and sweatshirts without having to wait for her body heat to warm them up for her. There's something about it that brings Sansa comfort, that makes her forget for a while about Margaery and her unreadable looks and off smiles, at least until the warmth runs out. It all comes rushing back, then.

Her email to her parents is short and bland; there's no use in telling them what she's been getting up to. Sansa tries for the fifth time to fill in the missing blanks in her memory from the night before, but even a good night's sleep and two days of soberness don't do anything to help. She can't help but wonder if Margaery remembers. She has to, or else why would she ask if Sansa did? If that's the case, than what does she remember that's so (frightening, terrible) important that she needed to know, and looked so disappointed when Sansa didn't give her the answer she was looking for?

 


	8. Chapter 8

There's some small comfort in seeing that many of her classmates look as unprepared for the exam as Sansa feels, despite having studied her arse off the day before. They shuffle into the room, slouching, yawning and rubbing at their eyes. Some doze with their heads on their desks and other frantically flip through their books for last minute cramming. All Sansa does is stare at her desk, absently rubbing the side of her nose and the corner of her eyes. It shouldn't be a difficult test, but Sansa's thoughts are adamantly elsewhere. She frantically tries to remember the passages she had so carefully spent an hour memorizing and trying to form the jumble in her head into coherent answers, but when she's finished and hands her paper in she feels less than confident about her results. Still, she's one of the first to be done, and she leaves the room with just over an hour of spare time until her next lecture.

It's a nice day out; hot, but not stifling. The sun is warm on her bare legs and arms, soaking into her skin. Sansa meanders to the college green, pulling her hair up as she goes. She finds a nice tree to sit under, shaded by leaves that rustles softly in the same breeze that stirs loose strands of Sansa's hair. When she's settled, she sighs and leans back, closing her eyes.

She should have known better. She hears the grass crunch softly under someone's feet, and when she opens her eyes it's Margaery standing in front of her again. Her curls are piled up on her head, eyes hidden behind a pair of aviators, one brow cocked, and a tiny smile on her face. There's a bag in her hand. Embarrassed at being caught dozing again, Sansa feels her cheeks go red and quickly sits up.

"You like this tree quite a lot, don't you?" Margaery asks. She gestures to the ground next to Sansa with one hand and unwraps the bag from around her wrist. "May I sit?" Sansa nods quickly and scoots over to make room for Margaery against the tree. The girl sits gracefully with a sigh and pushes her sunglasses on top of her head, stretching out long legs. Sansa stares, wanting to touch, and curls her fingers into the grass to stop herself. "I brought your clothes back."

"Thanks," Sansa mumbles, taking the plastic bag and setting it on the ground on her other side. Margaery smiles at her again and tilts her head back, face to the sky and her eyes closed. Sansa's eyes fall on her neck, down to where her collar is exposed by the dip in her shirt. Sansa's mouth goes dry. _Stop looking_ , she scolds herself, staring at the grass in front of her feet.

"What are you doing out here?" Margaery asks. Sansa glances at her out of the corner of her eye. She hasn't moved, still lounging with her draped over her purse and her sunglasses on top of her head. The wind blows and dapples the shadows across her face with dots of sunlight. Sansa thinks she looks like a painting. "Don't you have class?"

"Yeah," Sansa replies. "I had that exam."

"Oh, yeah. How'd it go?"

"All right."

Margaery turns her head to look, her hair catching on the bark of the tree. She raises a slim hand to fix it, picking bits of wood out of her curls without a care. "How many more classes do you have today?"

"One," Sansa replies. It's odd, having a normal conversation with Margaery, almost like they're friends. _I guess we are friends_ , Sansa thinks, picking at strands of grass. The word feels like a knife in her ribs. Friends. "You?" Margaery answers with a shrug. Sansa rubs dirt off her fingers.

"I think I'll skip. When are you done, five? We should have dinner together." _It's not a date_ , Sansa thinks, blushing again. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm okay," she says. She smiles. "Dinner sounds great."

"Good," Margaery says, and stretches like a satisfied cat, practically purring. Sansa licks her lips, her heart pounding, and represses a shudder as Margaery arches off the tree. Her eyes flash open a second later, smiling a pretty smile that gives Sansa butterflies that go from her stomach into her chest and get stuck in her throat. Margaery picks herself up and dusts her shorts off, then fixes her bag. "Shall I come collect you at seven?" It sounds like something a knight would say. Sansa always liked those stories the most, but she knows better now.

“Seven's good,” she replies. Her fingers are still twisted up in the grass, yanking the blades out of the soils with tiny rips.

“Great!” Margaery says in that self satisfied way she does. As if Sansa could refuse her, not with her stomach in knots and her chest warming with every second Margaery's smile lingers on her. She wiggles her fingers in a parting wave. “Until then, sweetling.” Sansa forces her eyes to stay open, letting the pet name hit her like an ocean wave. Her breathing is shaky when she inhales, but soft enough that Margaery can't hear. She watches Margaery walk away. _It's not a date. No matter how much it feels like one._

She dresses like it is one, and even though she feels foolish for it she can't stop herself. There's some need, buried deep under her skin, to impress everyone she meets. For Elinor and Alla it's presents itself in intelligence. She feels proud when she helps them. She feels useful. With Margaery it's something else entirely. The Tyrell girl already notices her, but Sansa's almost afraid that she'll fall from the spotlight, and Margaery will turn her attention on someone else. It's like what happened with Joffrey, at the beginning, when Sansa was so eager to impress him because he was handsome and charming (before she learned about the beast that lay under all his sweet words and preened feathers).

She tries to keep it casual, wearing jeans even though it's warm out, and one of her lighter tops. She looks at her heels, but goes for flats instead. It doesn't matter if she's an extra three inches taller than Margaery or not, the girl is still intimidating and commanding (in the best way, Sansa thinks, her stomach clenching). There's no point in Sansa making herself feel more awkward by adding to her height. She puts her make up on, then washes it off and starts again, then puts her hair up, then takes it down again. She feels sick with nerves, and reminds herself _again_ that it's not a date.

It feels like one when Margaery shows up in a dark blue blouse that makes her eyes seem more black than brown, skirt to her knees and heels putting her at eye-level with Sansa, who suddenly feels woefully under-dressed. Margaery either doesn't notice or doesn't care (it has to be the latter, her eyes linger too long, and Sansa wants to squirm, to slam the door in her face and hide).

“You look good,” Margaery says. Sansa's worries evaporate. “Great, really.” Margaery offers her arm, like a knight would. Or a gentleman. Sansa grabs her bag off the kitchen counter and takes it with a smile. She feels easier now, knowing that Margaery approves of her outfit, knowing that she hasn't already screwed up a night out. Although, on the other hand, Sansa thinks, letting Margaery lead her down the hall, she can't help but wonder where they're going that prompted Margaery to dress up so nicely.

She doesn't voice her concerns until they're at Margaery's car (a very nice car, Sansa notices, that smells the same as Margery's perfume). The Tyrell girl laughs sweetly, slipping into the car with all the grace of a queen. Puzzled, Sansa follows, far less gracefully.

“We're not going anywhere that fancy, I assure you,” Margaery says, soothing Sansa's worries. “I'm just terrible as resisting the urge to dress up when an opportunity presents itself.”

The drive isn't long, even in rush hour traffic, but with all the hills King's Landing has Sansa doesn't complain about not having to walk. Sansa looks at each business, shop, cafe and restaurant pass by, and wonders where Margaery is taking her. The music coming from the speakers is soft, but not something Sansa would listen to, all screeching and thumping base. Dubstep has always been Arya and Jon's thing, not hers. She tries to think of something to say, but everything that comes to mind sounds lame, and Margaery doesn't seem like she's going to talk either, as focused as she is on the road, so Sansa lets the silence stretch and does her best to keep her brain from wandering as its wont to do when she's in Margaery's company. The quiet is comfortable, at least, even though Sansa's jittery, keeping her hands trapped under her thighs to hide how they tremble and keep herself from biting her nails.

Around ten minutes later Margaery switches lanes and turns onto a side street into a small parking lot behind a row of tall buildings sat along the main road. A handful of other cars, some nice and some not, but none looking quite as impressive as Margaery's, are scattered in the parking spaces. Sansa looks for a sign to indicate where Margaery plans on taking her, but the only one she can see just says "parking" in big red letters, with hours underneath in black.

"I hope you're hungry," Margaery says as she shuts the car engine off. "The portions here are rather large." Sansa follows her out of the car and around the corner. The buildings in this part of the city are old, their proximity to the sept giving them priority over everything save those by the Keep, but the bar that Magaery holds the door open to for Sansa is newer than the rest. The Architect it's called. Sansa glances at the menu briefly as she walks in and winces at the prices she sees, almost walking right back out again, but Margaery is close behind her, and touches the small of her back to guide her forward into the crowded room. It burns. Inside it's loud and dim, conversations from dozens of different tables all filling the air at once. Margaery squeezes past Sansa and a couple leaving to greet the host and says something about a reservation. Sansa wonders how she managed to get one on such short notice. Perhaps the Tyrell name still carries more weight than she initially believed.

Margaery is all white teeth and sparkling eyes when she smiles, looking over her shoulder to check that Sansa is following behind her as they're led to their table. It's across from the bar and against the wall, between two other tables but with plenty of room for them both, despite all the diners they're sharing the bar with. Margaery pulls Sansa's chair out for her, lips still curved. Sansa knows her face is warm but the low light keeps it hidden. The host leaves menus for them, menus that Sansa's afraid to look at. Even the drinks are pricey.

"Order whatever you like," Margaery says as though she's sense Sansa's unease, settling across from her and examining the drinks menu with her lips lightly pursed and her fingers curled by her chin. Her tone leaves no room for argument. There's a stray curl threatening to fall into her eyes and Sansa has to keep one hand on the menu and the other tightly clenched in her lap to keep from wanting to fix it. Her palms are sweaty, her chest is hot, and the low light is doing nothing to hinder Margaery's beauty.

She mulls over the drinks to give herself something else to focus on. There's a large selection of wines, red and white both (neither of which Sansa is particularly fond of), and a handful of beers and ciders. The cocktails look appealing, but they're expensive, and Sansa's still aware of how much her half of this meal is going to cost despite Margaery's nonchalance.

The other girl glances up at her over the top of her menu. "I'm serious, Sansa," she says. "We can share if you'd like. I don't think I can finish an entire entrée on my own, and besides, I'm very agreeable where food is concerned."

"Oh, no, I couldn't-"

"I insist. I think they have a combo platter..." Margaery switches one menu for the other and leaves Sansa with little choice. It should bother her, so many things about Margaery should bother her, but instead she feels a smile pulling at the corners of her lips. “Ah, here.” Margaery reaches for Sansa's menu and flips it over to the back, setting a slim finger atop an item halfway down. “Does that sound all right to you?”

Before Sansa can answer their waiter arrives to take drink orders. Sansa lets Margaery go first, buying herself more time, but in the end she settles for water. She wants her head to be clear, and after the weekend just the thought of more booze makes her head hurt. She almost expects Margaery to tease her, but all she does is tell the waiter they need a couple more minutes to decide.

“Well?” Margaery asks. “Would you like something of your own or does the platter sound all right? It doesn't matter to me either way.”

“I'd hate to waste food,” Sansa replies, and Margaery grins. “Thank you.”

“No, thank _you,”_ Margaery says. “Consider it repayment for you helping me with all those pesky poems. I don't understand how you do it.”

“I don't understand how you can do politics.” Margaery giggles as their drinks arrive. She thanks the waiter and orders their food. There's already condensation gathering on Sansa's glass. It's cold against her fingers and freezes the sweat on her skin.

“I suppose our brains are just wired differently. Not that I mind the poetry. As far as electives go it was one of the least painful that was still open." Margaery curls her fingers around the stem of her wine glass and swirls it gently before sipping. She hums, so softly that Sansa has to strain her ears to hear it. "Are you sure you wouldn't like a drink? I promise you won't be disappointed. Here, you can try mine if you like." And then Margaery is holding out her glass with an expectant look on her face and Sansa can't refuse her. She carefully takes the glass from the other girl and drinks.

It's not bad for wine, not that Sansa really has enough knowledge to judge, but all she can think about when she hands the glass back is the light smudge Margaery's lips left on the rim, and how Sansa's had been tantalizingly close to touching it. She licks her own and takes a quick sip of water.

Margaery chuckles. "That terrible?"

"No," Sansa replies quickly, blushing again. "No, it's quite nice. I'm just... more of a mixed drinks girl, I think." Margaery hums. Sansa drinks again and tries to think of something to keep the conversation going. A dozen things flit through her mind, none of them at all appropriate, until finally her brain latches onto the one thing she knows she can talk about. "What's your favourite poem? From the ones we've read, I mean." Margaery shrugs and sips her wine, tapping her fingers against the glass. The soft click of her nails is lost in the noise of the bar. She shifts in her seat, foot brushing against Sansa's leg. Sansa immediately pulls them back, tucking her feet under her chair.

"I'm sorry," Margaery says. "You don't need to move." She smiles. Sansa keeps her knees bent. "To answer your question, I'm not really sure. I've only read the ones you and I have gone over. Perhaps you could show me more?" Sansa stiffens. _Is that flirting? Is she flirting?_ It sounds like she's flirting, the silky tone of her voice, the way her smile has shifted just enough, caught between a grin and a smirk. Sansa wants to gulp down her entire glass of water, but she forces herself to only drink a small amount, just enough to wet her throat. Maybe she _should_ have a drink.

"Well, unless you plan on stopping tutoring then you'll read others," she says. Margaery's smile changes again. The flirtatiousness is gone, and the look on her face that replaces it is friendly, but polite. She sits up slightly and finishes off her glass of wine before filling it up again.

"Sadly, you'll be saddled with my company until the end of the semester," Margaery says, and Sansa has a terrible inkling in her gut that she screwed something up again.

The rest of the dinner is fairly tame. The food arrives, and they pick and share and chat. Margaery asks about Sansa's family, about the North, makes jokes that have Sansa chuckling but don't quite manage to dissipate the soft tension in the air between them. Sansa tells Margaery she'll have to visit the North one day, and Margaery laughs and says she'll have to buy a whole new wardrobe for a trip like that, but maybe one day, when she's doing a whirlwind political tour of the country in ten years. Sansa's full by the time the platter is cleared, and Margaery giggles through offering dessert. She's tipsy, Sansa can tell, but she's stopped drinking now, and dessert sounds lovely.

"Would you like to share again?" Margaery asks. "I have an absolutely beastly craving for sweets, but I don't think I can have a whole plate to myself. Gods." Sansa's feeling full as well, and-

"Oh, they have lemon cakes! I love lemon cakes."

"Let's get lemon cakes, then," Margaery says quickly, as through she's afraid Sansa will change her mind if left to think for too long, and flags down their waiter. "One lemon cake slice to share, please. A larger one, if you don't mind." She turns her smile on Sansa again when the server leaves. Sansa's still nervous. She hasn't stopped being nervous. The way Margaery is looking at her now doesn't help. It's only a quick dart of her eyes along what's visible of Sansa above the table but it's enough, and Sansa thinks she must be seeing things. _Stop being silly_ , she tells herself. _It doesn't mean anything._ Except what if it does?

She doesn't notice that she put her fork on her dinner plate until their cake comes and she can't find it. She quickly asks for another before their waiter can leave the table. Margaery laughs at her and cuts a bite of the cake off with the side of her own, and holds it out for Sansa.

“Here,” she says. “You love them so much you should have the first bite, and you can tell me if it's any good or not.”

“No, I can wait,” Sansa replies quickly. Margaery rolls her eyes and holds the fork closer.

“I insist.” _Always insisting_ , Sansa thinks as she leans forward and scrapes the cake off with her teeth. For a second all she can think of is how sweet and tangy the cake is, the icing cool and creamy on her tongue, but then she sees the light reflecting in Margaery's dark eyes and how her teeth are nibbling on the corner of her lip and she almost chokes on her bite. Margaery doesn't offer her fork again, and dessert is a mostly silent affair, only broken by the occasional hum or reiteration of how good the cake is.

Margaery snatches up the bill before Sansa can even consider looking at it, and smoothly inserts her card into the book before setting it on the end of the table again. She finishes off the glass of water she ordered after her last glass of wine and tucks loose curls behind her ears.

“That was really lovely,” Sansa says. “I won't have to eat for a week now.” Margaery laughs softly, all teeth when she smiles.

“I'm glad you enjoyed yourself.” The waiter returns to take the check. Sansa watches out of the corner of her eye as he swipes Margaery's card, hoping for a glance at the total, but his body is blocking the way, and he hands the book back to Margaery when he comes back. The Tyrell girl carefully keeps the receipt hidden from Sansa's eyes, signing both copies quickly and tucking one into her purse and leaving the other on the table. She offers her hand instead of her arm when she stands, lifting her bag onto her shoulder with the other. Sansa's is shaking when she takes it. If Margaery notices she doesn't comment. Sansa is all too aware of the sweat gathering again in the creases of her skin as Margaery leads them out into a mild night. The other girl's skin is soft and warm and dry and Sansa never wants her to let go and she hates herself for it.

“Are you okay to drive?” she asks, all those drinks Margaery had floating to the front of her memory. Margaery beeps the car and opens her door, letting Sansa's hand drop. Sansa lingers, waiting.

“Of course,” Margaery replies, offering her a reassuring grin. “I hardly feel it.” The engine starts smoothly just before Margaery closes the driver side door. Sansa slips into her seat and clips her belt on. Margaery's hand stays on the gear stick. Sansa keeps hers in her lap to keep from reaching for it again, even though her fingers ache to do so. _It's not a date,_ she tells herself firmly. _You don't get to hold her hand. You don't_ want _to hold her hand._ The problem is that she does. She shouldn't, but she does.

Would Margaery mind? She had held it on the way out, but this is different. There were people there, and it was crowded. Surely Margaery only did it to keep them from being separated. But had she? What if now, in the quiet of the car, with nothing to fill the air between them but the soft hum of the engine and soothing bass, Sansa slipped her fingers between Margaery's, filling the gaps that she could see the black of the stick through?

She doesn't, and Margaery doesn't offer again, not even when she's walking Sansa back to her dorm. Disappointment blooms in her chest. She tries to tell herself not to be silly. It wasn't a date, just a thank you meal, no matter how lavish and expensive, no matter how flirtatious Margaery was. Maybe she's like that with everyone. Sansa's only ever seen her interact with her cousins. She bites back a sigh, fishing her keys out of her pocket.

"What, no kiss?" Margaery asks, amused. Sansa drops her keys and feels her face go as red as her hair. Margaery giggles and bends to retrieve them while Sansa stands frozen to the spot, one hand still in midair, fingers curved. "I'm joking." Margaery dangles Sansa's keys in front of her face, smiling. Sansa swallows hard, a knot in her throat making it difficult to talk. She almost drops her keys again when their fingers brush. Margaery's eyes are dark when Sansa meets them. Sansa can hardly tell where her irises ends and her pupils begin. She can hear her heart pounding in her ears. Her gaze drops to Margaery's lips, just briefly, but Margaery notices. Sansa feels like a deer that just launched itself in front of a car.

It's cliché as it gets, but Sansa swears that time slows as Margaery leans in, one hand resting against Sansa's upper arm. If it weren't for her heels she would have to stand on her toes to reach, but Sansa's not a head taller than her now, only a handful of inches, and Margaery can easily brush her lips across Sansa's cheek. It burns just as much as the first, maybe even more, like still hot embers pressed to her skin. Margaery pulls away but the pressure lingers. Sansa licks dry lips and tries not to look at her.

"I had a great time," Margaery says. Her voice is different, light but tight. Fake. Sansa does glance at her then, afraid that she's lying, but there's nothing on her face to indicate that she is, and her behaviour certainly lends itself to her having enjoyed their meal. Margaery takes a step back and crosses her arms over her chest, hugging herself. "I seriously can't thank you enough for helping me. See you tomorrow?"

"Y-Yeah," Sansa chokes out, nodding. She feels like an idiot. Margaery brushes her curls out of her eyes, adjusts her bag, and wiggles her fingertips in a parting wave. Sansa watches her walk away, and when she gets to the end of the hall to wait for the lift quickly unlocks her door and slips inside before Margaery can notice her staring. She rubs roughly at her cheek. It wasn't a date, so why is Sansa's heart thundering like she was just given a goodnight kiss?

She texts Arya.

_How do you know when someone likes you?_

The reply comes a few minutes later, laden with Arya's usual teasing and sarcasm. Sansa sighs, biting the inside of her cheek, and scolds her sister. The serious answer comes then, two simple, heavy words, making Sansa's heart do sickening flips.

_You don't._


	9. Chapter 9

She can't think the next day. She can never think right around Margaery. The words go in one ear and out the other, the lecture floats around in her mind and then dissipates like morning fog in sunlight. It's been too long for Margaery to move her seat again so she can't see Sansa's staring but that makes it all worse. Margaery is so close, so tantalizingly close, and all Sansa has to do it move her hand forward a few inches to run her fingers through the other girl's curls, to see if they feel as soft and silken as they always look. She doesn't. She can't.

The text she gets from Elinor twenty minutes before class ends asking her if she wants to grab a drink at a pub down the street is more of a relief than it should be, even though it means cancelling her tutoring session with Margaery. She hops on the opportunity; after last night she doesn't think she can be alone with the other Tyrell girl without doing something insanely embarrassing or stupid. Or both. Margaery looks disappointed when Sansa says her, stumbling over apologies and nervously tucking her hair behind her ear, but it fades, and she shrugs and laughs and tells Sansa to enjoy herself. She's on her phone before Sansa can apologize again, talking in familiar terms to whoever is on the other end. Sansa dials Elinor on her own for further details, and stops by her room to drop off her books and change into a lighter shirt to combat the early evening heat.

The walk down is nice. Sansa hasn't been getting out enough recently between class and clubbing and trying to make sure she eats and gets enough sleep. There's rush hour traffic on the streets and people bustling all around her. Sansa huddles into herself and pushes through where she can until she's on the right side of the road and can see the bar ahead of her. Elinor is already at a table when she steps inside, and waves with a grin that's far more open than any of her cousin's ever are.

“Hey,” she says when Sansa is close enough. There's already an empty beer bottle on the table at her elbow. “I was about to get another drink. What do you want?”

“Whatever you're having,” Sansa says, sitting as Elinor stands and fishing a fiver out of her pocket to pay. She's had enough of Tyrell generosity for one week already, and Elinor is no Margaery. Her friend doesn't protest, just takes Sansa's money and strides over to the bar. Sansa sets her bag on the seat next to her and pulls her hair up. Elinor's biting her lip when she returns, watching Sansa's hands. She sets Sansa's beer in front of her and sits, sipping at her own. Sansa lifts hers to her lips.

They talk about books. They talk about how Sansa hates the hot weather and how Elinor misses The Reach and its gardens. Elinor tells her about someone Alla has started to show genuine interest in. She sounds surprised, and from what Sansa's found out about Alla's behaviour over the past month she is, too. Alla seems more the type to flit about than settle on one person, not that Sansa cares what she does, especially since between her and her cousin, Elinor is definitely the nicer. Not to mention Alla's practically been giving her the cold shoulder since she started spending more time with Margaery.

“So,” Elinor starts, turning her bottle around and around with her fingertips. She's on her third drink now, and Sansa her second, and she has that air of giddiness around her that comes from being on the border of drunk. Her lips keep twitching like she wants to smile but is trying not to. “I heard you went out with Marg last night.” Speak of the devil, Sansa thinks, and quickly takes a drink. Elinor isn't looking at her. She's staring at the top of her bottle.

“How did you find out?” Sansa asks, confused. She certainly hadn't said anything, and she doubted Margaery would have.

"Renly told me," Elinor replies. "He said, and I quote, 'Margaery won't shut the hell up about it, it's driving me bloody mad'." Sansa snorts into her drink. She finds it hard to believe that Margaery would be anything but reserved. Even when Sansa was helping her study for her politics exam her excitement over the subject, while clear, was muted. "How did it go?" Elinor's words sound loaded. Sansa hesitates a moment before replying, using her drink to buy herself more time.

"It was fine," she says carefully. "She just wanted to thank me for helping her with our poetry class." It was most certainly not a date. Elinor slumps back in her seat, a broad grin spreading across her face. She's pretty, Sansa notices. Not in the same way Margaery is, all poise and sophistication, but pretty. Sansa finishes off her beer.

"You want another?" Elinor asks. Sansa's out of money, but Elinor insists the next round is hers. She pauses a bit when she stands, fingertips resting on the edge of the table to brace herself, then shakes her head lightly and saunters off. There's a spring in her step that wasn't there before, a sway to her hips that Sansa can't pull her eyes away from. Her stomach twists. She doesn't like girls, she thinks suddenly. Margaery's just an exception. Elinor sees her looking and waves from across the room. It's more crowded now, surprisingly so for a Tuesday night. The panic fades. Would it be so bad if she liked Elinor? She's attractive, nice, smart, and never been anything but friendly to Sansa. Plus, she's as easy to read as a children's book, compared to Margaery's War & Peace sized complexity. There's no threat of hidden agendas hiding behind her kind eyes.

She doesn't flinch away when, halfway into their new drinks and watching a band get set up in the back corner of the room, Elinor reaches across the table and places her hand over one of Sansa's, fingertips trailing along Sansa's knuckles and down the backs of her fingers before smoothly sliding between them. Sansa's tipsy and warm and Elinor's hand feels nice and cool in comparison. The band runs checks. Sansa finishes her drink and considers another, but then the band starts to play and _oh gods they're terrible._ Over the screeching of guitars and drowned out vocals, Elinor starts to cackle, her fingers squeezing around Sansa's hand.

"I think that's our cue to leave," she says, leaving her beer half finished and tugging Sansa out of the booth and towards the door. The night has cooled some, the humidity dropped. Sansa rubs her arm with her free hand, staving off goosebumps when the wind blows. They're both giggling when they start walking, and Sansa is breathless, smiling so hard her jaw and cheeks ache from holding it. Then the laughter fades and the sounds of a busy city bustle around them as they draw closer and closer to campus. Elinor doesn't let go of her hand and Sansa doesn't try to pull it away.

"Soooo..." Elinor drawls when they're nearing her and Alla's dorm building. She's slurring a bit now, and the alcohol has gone to Sansa's head. "D'you wanna come up? Alla's still out, I think." Sansa's mind feels hazy. The offer is tempting, more than it probably should be. She hums, swinging their hands lightly until they stop walking outside the front door.

"I'd love to," she replies, "but I've gotta be up early tomorrow, and honestly I'm still bushed from the weekend."

"That's a shame," Elinor says. She doesn't sound disappointed, though, and she's still smiling. _Gods, she's pretty_ , Sansa thinks absently, the thought fluttering through her mind like a bird. "Still, thanks for a good time." The conversation is familiar, but this time Sansa doesn't stutter when she says,

"Me, too." Elinor squeezes her hand, head tipped back, then she's standing on her toes, one hand on Sansa's shoulder, and kissing her. It feels longer than it is, and it's soft and innocent and everything Sansa wishes her first kiss had been. She sighs when Elinor steps back, redistributing her weight and giving Sansa a hopeful look.

"Good night, I guess," Elinor says. She doesn't ask if it was okay. She doesn't run. And Sansa doesn't either. She doesn't twist her head to check if anyone saw them. She doesn't care if they did. She smiles, untangling her fingers from Elinor's and tucking her hair behind her ear.

"Night," she replies. Elinor lingers, biting her lip, then tugs the door open and slips into the building. Sansa touches her fingers to her lips, giddy, and practically floats across campus.

 

She can't stop thinking about the kiss, light as it was, and by the time her lectures are over (painfully long and dragged out as they feel), Sansa is bubbling with excitement, practically skipping into the library. It fades when she gets there and sees all three Tyrell girls speaking in low voices, frowning at each other. Sansa immediately thinks it's her fault, and her excitement turns to dread, her joy to ashes in her mouth. She steels herself and strides over. Alla looks more annoyed than Sansa's ever seen her, and takes one look at her before grabbing her books and leaving. She almost knocks her shoulder against Sansa's on the way out.

“I'm sorry about her,” Margaery says softly, glaring over Sansa's shoulder. Elinor sighs over her, rubbing her face with her hands. “Elinor said she likes someone, and she didn't take to it so well. I think she'll come around, though.” Margaery shakes her head with a small, frustrated huff. “Maybe Megga can talk some sense into her over break.” She pulls out Sansa's usual seat for her. Elinor won't look at either of them. The study session is less productive for it. Margaery shows little interest in anything they're talking about, constantly checking her phone, and Elinor acts like she's walking on eggshells. Sansa wants to run. She holds her ground, and talks even though it feels like no one is listening. Margaery leaves without a word before the session is done, frowning at her phone.

Sansa listens to the door slam shut behind her, watches several students glare at the noise, then clears her throat. “What's going on?”

“I'm so sorry,” Elinor sighs, finally meeting her eyes. She looks like she hasn't slept. “I just had such a fun time last night, and I couldn't keep my mouth shut, and she asked who I went out with and I just blurted it out, I didn't mean to. She won't tell anyone, I promise.” There are a dozen things that Sansa could say, that she _should_ say, but the first thing to fall out of her mouth is,

“Does Margaery know?” Elinor shakes her head. Relief makes Sansa's limbs feel like liquid.

“Alla didn't tell, but she... she doesn't like it. Not you-it's not-I don't think it's you, she just... My aunt's not the most liberal woman, y'know?” But Sansa doesn't care what Alla or her mother think. All that matters is that Margaery doesn't know. “Look,” Elinor is saying, and Sansa forces herself to pay attention. “I know this is probably a really bad time to ask, but I don't know if I'll be able to work up the courage again, and I'd really like to go out with you again.” Sansa says yes without thinking, and it feels stuck somewhere between the truth and an escape.

 

Margaery is quiet the next day, though she still smiles at Sansa when she walks into the classroom. Sansa doesn't look at her, and Margaery doesn't turn around to say anything to her. Sansa takes notes, but she's only listening to Melisandre with half an ear. She's sure she would find the professor's opinions on the power of women during the War of Five Kings interesting if she could focus, but all she can think about is the book of poetry in her bag that means Margaery is going home with her when the lecture ends. She could beg off with another excuse, even though she has no real one to offer, but guilt eats at her chest. She can't stop herself wanting to spend time around Margaery, even with the knowledge that she has a second date (and this time it definitely is a date) with Elinor lingering at the back of her mind.

She should really stop letting Margaery pick what poems they discuss, but it's _her_ who's having the trouble, not Sansa, who recently can't get far enough away from the poetry collection and the way each word is like a vice around her ribs. Margaery keeps rubbing at her collarbone, fingers dipping under her shirt, and Sansa keeps watching as the pale skin reddens more and more with each pass while Margaery flips pages in her book to the poem she's marked. Sansa's phone beeps from her pocket. She fishes it out, and smiles at Elinor's text, happy and hopeful with a kiss at the end. When she puts her phone away, Margaery is looking at her steadily. Iher gaze breaks after a few seconds.

“I'm sorry,” she says, shutting her book with a thump and tucking it away. “I think I ate something bad at lunch. Rain check?”

Startled, Sansa blinks. “Are you okay?”

“Just feel a bit ill is all. Think I need to have a nap before Renly comes over and him and Loras make it impossible to get a decent night's sleep.” Her collar is bright pink. “Maybe I can come over on Saturday instead? I can bring my speakers and we can make a proper day of it. No clubs, no drinks. Just hang out.”

“Yeah,” Sansa replies carefully. “I'm sorry you don't feel well.” Margaery's shrug is quick and stiff. She sweeps her bag onto her shoulder. Sansa nervously fixes her hair.

“I'll live,” Margaery says dismissively. “Bye.” She's gone before Sansa can do anything other than rush out a goodbye of her own, leaving her to slump back against the sofa feeling thoroughly confused and a bit hurt. She sighs and presses her fingertips against the faint pain beneath her sternum. She wishes her brothers were around. She wishes Arya was around. Hell, she even wishes _Theon_ was around. At least she has the next day to look forward to, she reminds herself, wiggling her phone out of her pocket again to check for at least the tenth time since she got the text where and when Elinor wants to meet up. More and more she's finding herself willingly accepting anything that'll distract her from Margaery, and at least there's nothing in the least bit puzzling about her cousin.

 

They meet for breakfast at a cafe near campus. Sansa snacks on pastries and hot chocolate despite the summer warmth and listens to Elinor ramble. She has a thing for history, and the way her eyes light up when she talks about it is endearing, and makes Sansa smile. Elinor blushes when she realizes she hasn't stopped talking for a solid five minutes and quickly apologizes, but Sansa waves it off and finishes her drink.

“I thought we could go on a tour around the city,” Elinor says shyly, her face still flushed. “A lot of things are gone now, between all the fires, and that bad earthquake, but there's still enough, especially around Aegon's High Hill. There's some brilliant seafood shacks and shops along the waterfront, too.”

“That sounds great,” Sansa replies, and Elinor's relief is plain on her face. They split the bill and plan out a route to take. Normally Sansa wouldn't mind a deal of walking, but it's set to be a hot day, and just going from bus stop to bus stop will be plenty of exercise.

Elinor has plenty to say about every place they visit, and Sansa is happy to let her talk, soaking in the sights and happy she's finally getting to see the city. She lets Elinor take her hand, even though it's warm and both their palms are sweaty, and Elinor drags her around, pointing every now and then with her free hand and periodically squeezing Sansa's fingers. They get fish and chips to share from a shack on the waterfront and browse the shops while they eat. Sansa lingers on the jewellery, Elinor having wandered off deeper into the store. A necklace catches her eye. Sansa's sure it's cheap, and that whatever silver is on it (if there is any at all) will be gone in a couple months, but the rose charm is pretty enough. It should make Sansa think of Elinor, she _is_ a Tyrell after all, but it's Margaery that fills her head. Sansa drops her fingers from the necklace and hurries to find her date.

Elinor has coursework that keeps her from staying out late enough for dinner, but Sansa doesn't mind. The day was nice, but now her feet hurt and she's warm and tired, and stretching out on the couch to listen to Netflix and work on her own assignments sounds like heaven. Elinor is far more shy this time when she glances a kiss of the corner of Sansa's mouth, and Sansa is conscious of the people loitering on the campus green, but no one is paying any attention to them.

“Maybe next time we can do dinner?” Elinor asks.

“I'll let you know when I have some free time,” Sansa replies instead of a straight yes. It feels safer, not having an obligation, and Elinor's reaction is positive enough that Sansa can ignore the strange tightness in her chest.

She makes tea and grabs biscuits to go with it, and curls up on the sofa in her pyjama's under the spare blanket (still unwashed, but smelling less like Margaery and more like laundry after a week), with Netflix on for background noise. When it proves too distracting, she pulls up her music library instead, letting soft acoustics fill the room while she types up a draft of an essay due on Wednesday and mentally prepares herself for spending a day with Margaery.

It should be easier, she thinks, being around the other girl now, but things only seem to be getting worse. The crush, because that's all that it is and Sansa refuses to believe otherwise, should be gone. It's been a month, although half as long since she realized what exactly her feelings are. Granted, there's Elinor and her witty comments and abundant knowledge, but she doesn't make Sansa feel like she's standing on the edge of a cliff like Margaery does, a sensation that's equal parts exhilarating and terrifying.

There's nothing special about tomorrow. Sansa can make tea and they can hook up Margaery's speakers (something Sansa still means to buy for herself) so they can have proper music to listen to that doesn't struggle to play from a laptop, and work on poetry. There's a fresh sheet of discussion questions for them to mull over. It's not a date, just like dinner wasn't a date, not like the day she just spent with Elinor, or the drinks before that. Just two friends, _friends_ , hanging out. Sansa hates that it feels like so much more.

She dreams about home, about watching Robb and Jon play video games, about Arya chewing gum too loudly and teasing Sansa for reading fashion magazines. She dreams about Bran and his climbing and Rickon playing with his shaggy puppy. She dreams about her parents, smiling and happy. She wakes up missing them, feeling like there's a hole in her chest, and texts Arya despite the early hour just to hear her sister bitch about being woken up before inevitably falling back asleep for another hour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know a couple of you guys want something from Marg's pov, and while I can say I can try, it might end up just being an extra that I slip in as a bonus chapter at the end, because honestly part of the plot is Sansa really having no idea what Margaery is thinking, and therefore you guys not really knowing either.


	10. Chapter 10

Margaery looks good when she shows up. _She always looks good_ , Sansa thinks almost bitterly, smiling as she says hi and steps aside to let Margaery in. Her stomach is churning and her heart is pounding already and if this is how she's going to be for the next several hours she's pretty sure she would rather be strapped to a rack and tortured. Margaery makes herself comfortable, claiming what's now undoubtedly _her_ spot on the end of the sofa and reaching for Sansa's laptop. The speaker she brought with her is small, but similar to the one that Jon has, and Sansa knows from experience that despite its size it can pack a powerful punch. She browses through Sansa's library, then decides on shuffling the entire collection, adjusting the volume as necessary. She pats the sofa next to her and Sansa settles, a mug of the tea she made earlier in each hand. Margaery immediately takes hers as soon as Sansa sits and hums appreciatively.

"You always make the best tea," Margaery says. "Or maybe I'm just biased since it was the first thing I had after that hangover last week." It's a joke and Sansa treats it as one, letting a smile spread across her face. Margaery nudges her playfully and the contact, though brief, sparks across Sansa's bare skin. Mug in one hand, still drinking, Margaery fishes into her bag for her poetry book. "You know, this isn't the kind of music I normally listen to. It's not bad."

"What do you like?" Sansa asks. It occurs to her all at once that she hardly knows anything about the girl sitting next to her. She can guess at things (she's a Tyrell so she must be an avid gardener, she likes flowers since she always smell like them), but there's very few things she knows for certain (she likes politics, fashion, she has a very gay brother). She doesn't know her favourite colour or her favourite food, or if she actually enjoys reading or has only ever done it if it benefits her in some tangible way.

"It depends on my mood, really," Margaery replies. She places her mug on the table and licks her lips (Sansa stares and feels blood rush to her cheeks). "If I'm getting ready to go out somewhere loud like a club or a bar I listen to all of Loras' dubstep, but I grew up listening to my grandmother's old jazz records and traditional folk songs."

"As long as it's not Rains of Castamere," Sansa says, and it's meant to be funny and easy, but it comes out tense and hard. Margaery gives her a careful look, dark eyes boring into Sansa's until she can't hold the contact any longer.

"Not a fan of Lannisters, are we?" Margaery asks with all the carefree joviality that Sansa tried and failed to convey. "They're a rather difficult bunch, I'll give them that, although historically I suppose your family has had far more issues with them than mine. Professor Lannister seems rather nice, though." She smiles then, and some of the tension eases from Sansa's chest. Margaery isn't a Lannister, and even though King's Landing was under their power for a decent hunk of time, the majority of them keep to The Westerlands. _Except for Joffrey_ , Sansa thinks with a scowl, _but he's gone now, too._ At least for the moment.

Margaery squeezes Sansa's knee, and brings her tumbling back into the present. She jolts, but the Tyrell girl doesn't move her hand until Sansa looks her in the eye again. She can hear her heart in her ears. Seemingly reassured that Sansa is okay, at least outwardly, Margaery pats her leg and draws her hand back, smoothing down the pages of her book and taking another swig of her tea. Sansa quickly drinks some of hers before she forgets she's holding it. She has to sit close to see Margaery's book; the print is small, but there's no point in Sansa trying to find her own in the mass of other texts in her bedroom when they're going to be looking at the same thing either way. Margaery starts to read (she mentioned once that it helps her, and Sansa hasn't offered to read instead since). Sansa watches her lips, using the burning of her mug against her palms to keep her grounded. It's hard to focus when the words falling from Margaery's mouth prompt images in Sansa's mind that make her knees feel weak despite being bent, and _gods why did she have to pick this one?_

Margaery pauses halfway through to reach for her phone when it dings. It's hidden by her hair, cascading over her shoulder and in front of her face. Sansa singes her tongue on her drink. Margaery looks at her phone for a long time. The message can't be that lengthy, can it? She doesn't ask, not even when Margaery puts her phone away without replying and hooks her hair over her ears, picking up the poem where she left off.

 

 _i am architect and antagonist, both, building_  
and breaking, sighing and shaking, knee bent  
to press between your legs, a simple push  
like a foot on the pottery wheel pedal, endlessly rolling  
circular, undulating, constant, in flux —  
  
well, heroes may have glory  
but villains have all the luck. 

 

Margaery doesn't look at her. The verses hang heavy in the air between them. Sansa can feel their weight pressing against her head and shoulders, closing around her throat. Was it the text message? Is it the poem? She's not used to this Margaery, so quiet and small when she's normally so bold and brash and confident. Margaery sighs softly.

“You're the one Elinor kissed,” she says, and it's clearly not a question. Sansa's feet are on the ground, but she might as well be falling through the air for how secure she feels. Her hands tighten around her mug. “Are you two a proper item?” It sounds casual but it feels the opposite.

“No,” Sansa replies, because it's the truth. They've kissed, properly, once, and it doesn't matter if there's the possibility of another date in the future. Nothing has been said, and Sansa thinks she's familiar enough with Elinor's behaviour by now to know that the other Tyrell girl wouldn't just assume without asking.

“Megga told me, if you're wondering,” Margaery says, and Sansa finds that she is. “Well, not directly, but Alla was bitching, as she does, and Megga is a hound for gossip and thought that I had a right to know, seeing as you and I are friends. It's funny how quickly word travels, isn't it?” Terrifying, more like. Sansa wishes her tea was tequila. “I don't care,” Margaery is saying, making marks in her book with a pen. “It's nice that Elinor's found someone. She's been lonely for ages, even back in The Reach. It's good that she met you.” There's something Margaery isn't saying. Sansa's gut tells her she knows what it is, but her head tells her that it's impossible. Not Margaery. Sansa's not that lucky.

She's still close, sitting with her thigh pressed against Sansa's, denim on skin. With each inhale Sansa can smell roses. She can see the freckles the sun kissed onto Margaery's nose and the gentle curve of her eyelashes. Her beauty is as otherworldly as it was that first day, a masterpiece of human anatomy like the sculptures that sit revered on pedestals in the great museums. Only her skin is warm and alive and supple, not cold, hard stone. Margaery's acting like the conversation didn't happen, sharply tugging on her notebook when the binding catches on the inside of her bag. She's writing answers on the worksheet without help from Sansa, and it makes her question why Margaery is really coming to these sessions, situating herself into Sansa's home and Sansa's life with such ease it's like she was always there.

Sansa doesn't say anything, and Margaery doesn't ask any more questions about her and Elinor. The air is still tight. Sansa thinks she could wrap her fingers around it and squeeze if she wanted to. Eventually, Margaery grows bored, and, armed with another cup of tea, shifts her school things to the side and reaches for Sansa's computer again. The music stops and the silence that comes after is deafening. Sansa watches Margaery search through Sansa's YouTube subscriptions, but it's more music than anything else, and after a minute it's back to Netflix.

Margaery's taste in stand-up runs close to Sansa's own, and frankly, Sansa could do with a good laugh right now. It's all right for the first ten minutes, the first fifteen. Margaery is still close, but it makes sense when they're both watching on Sansa's laptop, which is a far cry from the huge flat screen TV in the basement back home. Margaery pulls her legs up and under, curling up and holding her mug against her chest until the last of the tea is gone. Sansa makes a point of _not_ looking at where it presses between her breasts and pulls her shirt tight.

But then Margaery leans into her, mug abandoned on the table and one hand in Sansa's lap, and it's hard to breathe. The anticipation is there, for something Sansa knows isn't going to happen. It's a warm tension in her chest, making each beat of her heart feel pointed and pronounced. Margaery's hair is soft against Sansa's neck, her cheek hot on Sansa's shoulder. Cool, even breaths wash across her collarbone. She has goosebumps on her skin, little prickles along her arms and legs. Margaery rubs her thumb against Sansa's thigh, just below the hem of her shorts. Her stomach twists into knots.

She doesn't move. Margaery's body vibrates with chuckles and outright shakes when she laughs. She keeps her hand on Sansa's thigh, her touch burning, her body warm and comfortable against Sansa's side. Sansa bites the inside of her cheek and focuses as hard as she can on everything that isn't the ache growing between her legs with each exhale on her neck. Margaery has to know what she's doing, she's far too clever not to. She's doing it on purpose. Sansa scolds herself immediately after the thought crosses her mind. They're just cuddling, there's nothing wrong with that. Friends cuddle. She's only fooling herself thinking it could be anything more.

Besides, she has Elinor; sweet, pretty Elinor, who's all too eager to show Sansa all the attention she could ever want. Sweet, pretty Elinor who doesn't make Sansa's body combust the way Margaery does, even when they kiss. Margaery shifts closer and for a brief second Sansa thinks she's going to kiss her as well, but all the girl does is sigh softly and let her fingers trail off the side of Sansa's leg to rest on her own. Through Sansa's laptop speakers the audience roars and claps as the show ends, and then the room is quiet save for the soft whirring of the hard drive and Margaery's breath by Sansa's ear.

“I should go,” Margaery says quietly. “I have dinner with Loras and Grandmother tonight, and I can't be late.” Sansa glances at the time. Already three. The tightness in her chest is back. She doesn't want Margaery to leave. She likes the weight of her against her side. She closes her eyes and leans away. Margaery sits up and Sansa listens as she gathers her things together. “I'd like to do this again. Treat you to that second dinner I promised.”

“It's my treat this time,” Sansa replies immediately. She opens her eyes when the sofa squeaks and shifts. Margaery hoists her bag onto her shoulder. “There's no class Monday, so you should come over again. I'll cook.” Margaery's answering smile is small and pretty. Sansa's anxious she'll say no when she already knows what the answer will be. Her confidence is surprising. There's a glint of amusement in Margaery's eyes, her lips twisting gently to the side.

“All right,” she agrees. “See you at five?” Sansa's reply catches in her throat when Margaery swoops down and places a kiss against her cheek. Sansa feels special, but the doubt is there as well. The only time she sees Margaery aside from their lecture is when they're alone or around her cousins. She could do this with anyone she wanted. With everyone she wanted. Why would she waste any time on Sansa? She'll be better off when this crush is gone. If only Margaery would stop being flirty.

 

Her third date with Elinor is far more serious. It's Sunday night and they're both dressed up for dinner, walking with Elinor's fingers twisted up in hers. It all feels off, but Sansa won't let on. Elinor is nice, she's pretty, she's honest, and the way she's looking at Sansa is enough to make her stomach do flips. Where they eat is nowhere as expensive as where Margaery took her. Sansa can afford to foot her half of the bill without having to worry about being too poor to buy groceries, and despite Elinor's protests, she pays for herself. The tension that seems to constantly thicken the air whenever Sansa is with Margaery is absent. It's easy being with Elinor, easy to forget she's a Tyrell, easy to forget Alla's less than welcome looks and Margaery's all too knowing eyes. Elinor isn't afraid to hold her hand over the table, and even though there's dozens of strangers in the restaurant with them, Sansa lets her. She doesn't turn down the offer of a drink this time. She doesn't want her head clear.

They share a dessert, and this time Sansa doesn't hesitate when she's offered a spoon, and her eyes don't leave Elinor's. She doesn't mean for it to be as flirty as it comes off, but she sees the look in Elinor's eyes change and watches her throat flex as she swallows. There's an apology on the tip of her tongue but Sansa bites it back. She has no reason to feel ashamed for flirting when she's on a date. She wants to flirt. She wants to accept the firm kiss that Elinor presses to her lips in the back of the taxi. Sansa's tipsy on wine and she can taste chocolate on Elinor's lips, and her fingertips are cold against Sansa's leg. There's no burn, there never is.

They spend the whole ride kissing, and Sansa doesn't care about the look the driver gives them when they pay the fare and slip out into a muggy night. Elinor doesn't let go of Sansa's hand. Her lipstick is smudged from Sansa's kisses. Sansa is sure her own gloss is as well. She wouldn't be surprised if there's blotches of red that wiped off onto her mouth. She licks her lips.

Elinor laughs abruptly, breathlessly. "Are you going to come up tonight?"

"Is Alla home?" Sansa replies. She would take Alla over Elinor's other cousin, but she doesn't want to deal with her if she can help it, no matter how tempting the unspoken offer of more kisses and touches is to her alcohol-giddy mind. Elinor's mood shows plain on her face. She sighs and scowls up at the floor her and her cousin's dorm is on.

"I suppose I can't come over to yours?" she asks. Sansa's stomach clenches. The answer she knows, immediately, is no, but there's no good reason for it. Everything always comes back to Margaery, and as unreasonable as it is, Sansa can't bring herself to change her mind. She offers and apologetic smile and shakes her head.

"I have to be up early," she says. "I really shouldn't be... distracted." That earns her a smile, at least, and a slightly drunken giggle. Elinor glances around quickly to make sure they're alone, then tucks her hair (so much darker than Margaery's) behind her ears and leans up for a kiss that makes Sansa's breath catch, but fails to set her body alight. Through the haze of wine, guilt strikes at her chest. Sansa sighs into the kiss, and squeezes Elinor's shoulders, then moves them to hesitantly rest against her cheeks. The pressure increases, and then Elinor sharply pulls away. Her cheeks are red.

"Right, we should probably stop that, then, before I can't," she says. Sansa can hear the tremble in her voice. "I'll call you."

"All right," Sansa says, slightly dazed. She won't ever deny that Elinor is a good kisser, certainly better than Joffrey, and with significantly less pawing at her and twice as much care. Elinor slips back towards her for a quick hug, kissing the edge of Sansa's jaw, then smiles shyly and mutters a goodnight before slipping inside. The night went really well. Sansa's sure she's got another date in the bag. Still, one question nags insistently at her as she walks back across campus, watching the last hints of sunlight glint across the tops of the buildings: does she want another date? What about Margaery?

What _about_ Margaery, Sansa thinks, frowning now as she opens the front door and pushes her knuckles against the button to call the lift down. She remembers with a startling clarity that the Tyrell girl is visiting her the next night, and all the butterflies and nerves that were missing with Elinor well up like a storm cloud. Sansa sighs. There can't be any more dates, even if she does want one. It isn't fair to either of them. Once this stupid crush on Margaery is gone, then she can see Elinor properly, but Sansa has never been intentionally cruel (except to Arya, but it's all fun and games in the end for them), and she's not about to start now. It's not fair of her to lead Elinor on when she's been so kind to Sansa and made King's Landing feel like something close to home.

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're welcome.

She manages to stave off her anxiety enough to sleep, but when she's fully roused herself and working on her homework it comes creeping back in, a mix of nervous stomach churning and excitement at the prospect of seeing Margaery on a day when they normally don't interact. She's avoiding Elinor's questions about another date (she doesn't have enough courage to say no to her right now), citing that she has exams coming up so she doesn't know, which is partly true. She has to write her own poem for a small assignment, and whoever does the best gets extra points which is enough to tempt Sansa into trying, and then there's an exam in women's history (will Margaery ask for help studying again?) and her general lit class. She never missed this part about university, having an exam in every class in the same week, but she's always gotten through by remembering it'll all pay off in the end.

She goes for a walk after, joining the handful of other students, and catches sight of Margaery under the large tree on the campus green that Sansa always seems to find herself sitting under between classes, basking in its shade with her aviators half buried in her hair and her fingers wrapped around a Starbucks cup. She's chewing on the straw, eyes closed, and Sansa's feeling bold and doesn't know why. She keeps her footsteps quiet, but it's not hard to muffle the sound of them with the noise of city traffic and music from an open window somewhere and the conversations filtering through the air.

"You look comfortable," Sansa says. Margaery jumps, sunglasses jolting and sliding halfway down her face before Margaery catches them and pushes them back on top of her head. Sansa draws satisfaction from her surprise, smirking in a way that feels like it could almost be on Margaery's level, at least until Margaery recovers and recognizes who Sansa is and her own lips curl in response.

"I am, thank you," she says. Sansa wonders if she's imagining the breathy edge to her voice or if it's actually there. It's gone a second later, regardless.

"You could have come up," Sansa offers, watching Margaery smoothly get to her feet and brush the backs of her jeans off. Sansa's eyes follow the path of her hands briefly before she snaps her gaze back to Margaery's face. "Are you hungry?"

"Absolutely famished," Margaery replies, voice full to bursting with dramatic exaggeration. "It's been _days_." Sansa chuckles at that and Margaery smiles, pleased with herself, and falls into step beside Sansa. She holds the door open, ever the lady, and goes so far as to skip ahead to call the lift for them. While they wait, Margaery takes the clip out of her hair and shakes the curls free, fluffing her fingers through them before scooping them back up. Sansa's mouth goes dry. She shoves her hand into her pocket to keep from tucking Margaery's hair behind her ear, to keep from feeling the silky waves against her skin again.

"So," Margaery says with all the air of an important declaration, "what are you cooking for me tonight, Lady Stark?" Sansa isn't sure why the title makes her blush, but she can feel the heat crawling up her cheeks.

“Chicken and rice,” she says, sheepish. “It's simple really, nowhere near as nice as what we had last time, but I used to make it all the time at home and they all seemed to like it, which is surprising really considering that Arya normally spends more time playing with her food than eating it and Rickon is always so picky about what he eats.” Margaery is grinning at her. The elevator beeps and the shift in gravity as it lands sends Sansa's stomach swooping up into her chest then back down again.

“Sounds delicious,” Margaery says, sweeping past with a breeze of rose-scented perfume and a toss of her curls, delicately plucking Sansa's keys out of her fingers. She has the door open before Sansa's even out of the lift, arm shooting out to stop the doors from closing on her. She hears Margaery's voice drift down the hall. “Loras never stops cooking. Everything is so fancy and flashy. Bloody gay men.” The affection in her tone makes Sansa's chest warm. _I wonder if she ever talks about me like that,_ she thinks. The door shuts behind her with a soft click.

Margaery is already on Sansa's laptop, still plugged into the closest socket and left open, the little speaker she had brought plugged into the headphones jack again. A few minutes later Sansa hears music, and it provides a wonderful backdrop while she prepares the chicken and vegetables and rice, balancing everything with the ease that came from years of practice. Whenever she looks behind her Margaery is still lounged in her corner of the sofa, foot tapping to the beat of Sansa's gentle acoustics and her fingers twirling her hair around.

Sansa's always found cooking cathartic. There are times when she yearns for Essosi carry-out, or the spice of Dornish cuisine, but most of the time she's content with the simple rustic pleasantries she grew up cooking. It sets her mind at ease, having so many things to do with her hands, so many things to focus on to make sure that everything goes to plan. Soon enough the scent of seasoned chicken and cooked vegetables starts to saturate the air. From the couch, Margaery inhales deeply and exhales into a hum and evolves into a groan, and twists around to look over the back of the couch. Sansa, although she only glances occasionally, can feel Margaery watching her, and fights to keep her shoulder blades from twitching against the prickle that's settled between them.

She serves dinner with tea and sits next to Margaery on the sofa. “There's ice cream, too, for after. Vanilla bean.”

“You know what my favourite flavour is?” Margaery asks, daintily cutting her chicken into bite-sized pieces. “It sounds ridiculous, I know, but I have _never_ had an ice cream I like more than pistachio. Although strawberry comes a close second. And vanilla of course. Put a scoop of each in a bowl for me and I'll go to the gods happy as a clam.” Sansa's never had pistachio ice cream, and it sounds so outrageous that she can't help but laugh. Margaery huffs and pouts at her, but it doesn't last long before she's giggling too and shaking her head before tucking into her food.

Sansa has just enough time between the first bite and Margaery's all too sensual moan to think that Margaery looks too sophisticated to like something as silly as pistachio ice cream before the sound Margaery makes makes Sansa bite her tongue and poke her lip with the prongs of her fork.

“Gods, Sansa, this is absolutely brilliant. Where did you learn how to make it?”

“Mum taught me,” Sansa replies softly, eyes fixed on Margaery's tongue when it darts out to lick her lips, how her eyes are closed, the look of pleasure on her face that can only come from good food (and a completely different kind of pleasure, and even though Sansa never _has_ , she thinks she could recognize it).

“You need to come live with me and make this every night,” Margaery demands, completely unaware of Sansa's staring as she attacks her plate again.

“If you eat it every night it loses it's charm,” Sansa says, and Margaery laughs and shrugs.

“I suppose that's true,” she replies around half a mouth full of food. “Of the dish, at least. You could never lose your charm.” And Sansa's blushing again and her heart is doing flips and it's going to be so hard to be friends with this girl but Sansa doesn't think she can stop. Margaery finishes before Sansa does, sitting back with a content sigh. Sansa picks her way through what's left on her plate, cleaning it a minute later while Margaery relaxes with her eyes closed and nothing left on the plate in her lap but crumbs. Sansa carefully takes it from her when she finishes her own and stands to put them in the sink to be cleaned later.

“Ice cream now or later?” she asks.

“Definitely now,” Margaery replies. Sansa juggles the tub of ice cream between her hands while she fetches bowls down and searches for a large spoon she can use in place of a proper scoop, and manages to get about two proper helpings of ice cream into each bowl. There's no chocolate sauce, but the vanilla is good either way (at least to Sansa), and Margaery doesn't complain when Sansa hands her her bowl. Margaery drinks half her tea before she starts to eat. Sansa doesn't bother. She gives herself brain freeze, but it's better than the heat that's still on her face and in her chest, anxious and tight. The song changes when Sansa finishes her bowl and Margaery is on the last two spoonfuls of her own, the tempo faster than most of her collection.

Margaery glances at her. “Do you dance, Sansa?”

“What?” Sansa replies automatically, not sure she heard correctly. Margaery rolls her eyes gently.

“I asked if you dance. I feel like dancing. Not club dancing, but... oh bugger it, come on.” She's reaching for Sansa's hands, fingers like ice on her flesh, and pulling her off the sofa before Sansa can think to refuse, but it was hardly a request, and Sansa's never been able to say no to Margaery. It isn't like dancing with Elinor at the club, and she guesses not the same as all the dancing she did at Crimson (though she still can't remember 90% of that night). Margaery's not grinding against her, she's not even standing all that close, but their hands are linked and the contact is warming Margaery's fingers, and she rolling her hips and shoulders and smiling, and Sansa feels all skinny legs and sharp elbows next to Margaery's fluid curves. But Margaery's blissful grin is enough to relax her, and soon Sansa is dancing, too, although not as freely as Margaery is and with significantly less grace. Margaery doesn't seem to care, and the brightness of her smile could rival the sun.

But the song ends, and a new one starts, slow and soft and deep, and Margaery's movements slow to meet it. Sansa can feel it under her skin, in her bones. Songs are just as much poetry as the words in her books, and cut just as deep. The dreamy voice washes over her. Margaery moves closer, her hands sliding slowly up Sansa's arms and pressing lightly against the sides of her neck, thumbs stroking under her jaw. Sansa can feel herself shaking already, and there's goosebumps on her skin.

 

 _Love of mine,_  
Won't you lay by my side,  
And rest your weary eyes,  
Before we're out of time,  
Give me one last kiss,  
For soon, such distance,  
Will stretch between our lips,  
Now the day's losing light. 

 

It's worse than poetry, and better at the same time. Margaery is so close. All Sansa can smell is her perfume, her shampoo. All she can feel is the heat of Margaery's hands on her neck, the soft cotton of Margaery's shirt and the stiff denim of her jeans scratching her palms. They're still dancing, bodies touching, and suddenly Margaery seems very small, the top of her head barely coming to Sansa's nose. Margaery turns her head, tucking her face against the crook of Sansa's neck. The words swirl around her mind. Her hands shift, thumbs teasing under the hem of Margaery's shirt, feeling the hot flesh beneath it. Everything about Margaery burns so brightly. They're twirling in slow circles and Sansa's head is spinning and she's never in her life wanted something more than she wants Margaery Tyrell to kiss her right now.

 

_Bring me your love, tonight._

_Bring me your love, tonight._

 

Margaery's hands slide into Sansa's hair, combing through it, pushing it over her shoulders. Her lips burn into Sansa's skin, pressed where they are at the side of her throat, just by her pulse. Surely Margaery can feel how quickly it's beating, like hummingbird wings fluttering beneath her veins. She's never slow danced before, she realizes distantly. There were school dances, but Joffrey either didn't go or didn't want to dance, and no one ever asked.

Margaery asked. Sweet Margaery, who's pulling away and Sansa fears for a heart-stopping second that she's going to stop, and she's dizzy from spinning and high on the scent of Margaery's perfume, but Margaery tips her head back, and she's so close that Sansa can count her eyelashes, can clearly see the edge of her pupils, dilated as they are, swallowing the spots of gold that Sansa finds so enchanting. Her fingers gloss across Sansa's cheek and cup her jaw. Joffrey was never so tender, never so careful. He never cared.

Margaery has to stand on her toes for their lips to meet, her arms slung around Sansa's shoulders and body pressing firmly into Sansa's own. Her hands find the small of Margaery's back where her spine curves to match the arch her body has taken. She can't breathe, but she doesn't have to, because Margaery is kissing her slow and deep and she's never been kissed like this before. She's never felt so important. Margaery pulls her close, impossibly so, her fingers tangled up in Sansa's hair now, tugging, and Sansa can feel every touch, every pass of her lips, every twitch of her fingertips, from head to toe. She tastes like ice cream.

The song is over before Margaery pulls away. Sansa feels like she's been drugged. Margaery's lips are pink and gently swollen, her teeth biting into the lower and Sansa wants to kiss her again, to stop her chewing her pretty mouth to tatters. She must look like an idiot, standing there gawking, but Margaery is staring right back, her eyes unreadable, and her cheeks lightly flushed. Sansa opens her mouth to speak, but Margaery's kissing her again before she can, tentative, exploring. Her tongue flicks across Sansa's upper lip when she stops this time and Sansa's body turns to jelly, her reaction caught in her throat.

"I'm sorry," Margaery says softly. Even in a whisper her voice is rough.

"Oh, gods, don't be," Sansa bumbles out. "I couldn't bear it." Margaery laughs then, quiet and breathy, and licks her lips, pushing Sansa's hair behind her ears. Sansa's mouth is dry again. She wants a drink. She wants Margaery to kiss her and never stop. Her head can barely keep up with the sudden flood of thoughts rushing through it.

"I've wanted to do that for weeks," Margaery says. Her voice is still airy, almost as dazed as Sansa feels. "I kept trying to drop hints, but short of being about as subtle as a brick to the face there wasn't anything I could do. Except kiss you, I suppose." _I wish you had sooner_ , Sansa almost says. _I've been dying a little each day since we met_ , but she doesn't. She just swallows over the knot sitting in her windpipe and smiles giddily.

"I'm glad you did."

"Me, too," Margaery replies. Her voice is stronger, more sure. She rubs her thumbs along either side of Sansa's jaw. Sansa's hands are still on her back, the warmth of Margaery's skin soaking into her palm through the flimsy material of her shirt. "I do have to ask, however," the Tyrell girl continues, and Sansa's stomach suddenly twists, "is there anything going on between you and my cousin?"

"No," Sansa says. She'll have to tell Elinor now. There's no other choice. She can only hope her friend will forgive her. "No. I mean, we went on a couple dates, and she did kiss me, but you already know that, don't you, because Alla can't keep her stupid mouth shut I swear she's as bad as my sist-" Margaery cuts her off with a short kiss, her fingers played across Sansa's cheeks and her breath hot when she giggles. She stays close, finding Sansa's gaze and holding it.

"In that case," she says, "I'll have to officially extend a dinner invitation. Will you allow me the honour of accompanying you on a date, Lady Stark?" Margaery would make quite a dashing knight, Sansa thinks, as she enthusiastically nods and agrees, her heart somewhere up in the clouds. “Brilliant.” And Margaery's kissing her again, smiling, and Sansa thinks this is what heaven must feel like. They don't get much else done that night. Margaery's eyes are black as ink when she leaves, promising that she'll text Sansa the details for their date when she figures out something suitable. Sansa thinks Margaery could take her anywhere she liked and she wouldn't care. She's still giddy an hour later, and doesn't realize she's grinning until toothpaste falls out of her mouth and onto her shirt.

The tough part comes the next morning, when she texts Elinor asking if they can meet up between classes somewhere quiet. Elinor suggests the library and Sansa can't think of anywhere else they could go aside from the green, but it tends to be crowded in the middle of the day with students cramming food into their mouth as they cram work before their lectures. Sansa picks a table near the door, and hopes that Elinor isn't the kind of person to cause a scene (she doesn't think so, but she tries not to make assumptions about people any more). The smile Elinor sports when she spots Sansa makes everything worse, especially when Elinor sees the look on Sansa's fade and her smile drops and her face is a mask of worry. She sits, but not close, and doesn't set down her bag. Sansa doesn't know what to say. She should have planned something out before hand, but how does someone _plan_ the best way to break someone else's heart? If it was anyone but Margaery... If it was anyone but Margaery, Sansa wouldn't be in the position she's in.

“I know what you're going to say,” Elinor finally says. She looks upset, but not like she's going to cry or shout. “I thought maybe you just weren't ready, or that you were hesitant because of Alla, but...”

“I'm so sorry,” Sansa blurts out. “I didn't mean for it to happen. I didn't even realize it until-” she cuts herself off. She won't lie. She knew before she went out with Elinor, she just wanted to pretend otherwise.

“Who is it?” Sansa wishes she hadn't asked that. It only makes everything harder.

“Margaery,” she mumbles. A look close to anger flickers across Elinor's face. Her jaw flexes and her eyes harden. Sansa wants to curl into a ball and turn invisible. She waits. After a few seconds, Elinor sighs and her expression relaxes.

“She's a handful, you know, but she's my cousin and I love her, so I hope things go okay.”

“Are _you_ okay?” Sansa asks, because she hates hurting people, even Arya, and she would hate herself forever if she's hurt Elinor, too. Elinor shrugs. It's not very reassuring.

“I'll be fine,” she says. “Just give me some time. And don't tiptoe around me, either. I'm not made of porcelain.” She stands and fixes her bag. “I'll see you later, Sansa.” Sansa watches her go, frowning, and sighs. After a moment she follows and digs her phone out of her pocket. There's no messages yet. Sansa can feel her impatience growing. There's no obstacles now (at least not ones that can't be easily removed) and she's _excited_. Margaery kissed her (her!) and she's asked her out on a proper date, and Sansa's giddy just thinking about it now, her bad mood forgotten. Would it be too soon to text Margaery and ask? Sansa's not sure of all the etiquette that surrounds dating, but it can't be _that_ bad. They did spend a good portion of the night making out after all. Her heart flutters nervously as she taps her thumbs against the phone screen, and waits anxiously for Margaery's reply. It comes an hour later, and Sansa has to peek at her phone under her desk to avoid a nasty look from her professor.

_It's a surprise. You like history right? See you in class!_

 


	12. Chapter 12

All Sansa wants to do when she sees Margaery standing outside the lecture room is kiss her. Margaery might almost always be on time, but she's _never_ early, and the fact that she's there, obviously waiting for Sansa, makes her stomach clench pleasantly. She doesn't kiss her, though, not where so many people she knows could see. In the private of Sansa's room is one thing. Margaery doesn't seem to expect anything, although she does lean up to sneak a kiss against Sansa's cheek and hug her quickly. To anyone walking by, they would look like nothing more than good friends greeting each other. They wouldn't notice how Margaery's lips linger just a second too long, how her fingers brush against the side of Sansa's neck when she drops her arm away. Sansa does, and it's a miracle she's not blushing again.

“Are you going to tell me where we're going tonight?” she asks, following Margaery into the room.

“No,” Margaery says easily. “It'll spoil the surprise.”

“And I'll spoil the dinner if I'm not dressed right for a fancy restaurant,” Sansa replies. Margaery settles in her seat and flips her hair over her shoulder.

“I'd bring a sweatshirt; it's supposed to be chilly tonight for once. Other than that, wear whatever you like. Wear that. You look lovely.” Sansa does blush at that. “We should go after class. Technically, where we're going is only open until sunset, so we should get as much time in as possible before we risk law enforcement coming round to boot us out.”

“Where are we going?” Sansa asks again, running through a list of possible places in her head, but she isn't familiar enough with the city to guess where Margaery intends to take her. Margaery twists in her chair to smile at her and makes a zipping motion across her lips.

“You'll see,” she says. Normally Sansa would hang onto every word Melisandre says, and while she does manage to pay enough attention that she's not caught by another surprise question, all she wants is for the lecture to end so Margaery can sweep her off to whatever venue she selected for their date. A proper date. One that Sansa actually _knows_ is a date, instead of feeling guilty for Margaery paying for an expensive dinner under the guise of it being a thank you for something as silly as helping her with poetry.

Margaery's hair looks lovely. Sansa clenches her hands into fists to keep from reaching out and pulling on one of her gentle curls to see how well it bounces. She doubts Margaery would mind (she would probably find everything about it amusing, like she seems to find everything else), but Sansa knows that once she starts she won't be able to stop. Besides, there'll be plenty of time to play with Margaery's hair later. She hopes. Margaery pulls her hair over her shoulder, baring part of her neck for Sansa's wandering eyes. Sansa can't help herself. She reaches out with the end of her pen and pokes. Margaery jolts lightly and turns around, smiling and her eyes twinkling with amusement. _Stop that_ , she mouths, swatting at Sansa's hand when she tries to poke her again.

They're assigned an essay and dismissed. Sansa stays on Margaery's heels, close enough that their arms brush with each touch. When they're away from the classroom and outside once more, Margaery reaches slowly for her hand and hooks their pinkies together. Sansa lets her take it with a small smile and a smaller blush. Margaery pulls her across the green, and for five minutes they stop inside Sansa's building to let her grab the hoodie Margaery instruct that she bring, and then they're bustling out to the parking lot to Margaery's swanky car and hopefully some answers as to where she plans on taking Sansa.

The only clue is a bag in the back of the car, but even that isn't any real indication of what's going on. There could be anything in that bag. It could have Margaery's gym clothes for all Sansa knows. She gives Margaery her best puppy dog eyes once they're settled in the car and the engine is started up, the car humming softly beneath them.

Margaery smirks. “Ohhh no,” she says, boldly reaching for Sansa's hand once the car is in gear and they're moving forward. She keeps a hold of one of Sansa's fingers even when she has to shift gears. “That look won't work on me, Lady Stark. Just be patient, we'll be there soon.”

Left with little choice, Sansa settles back in her seat with an exaggerated huff and toys with Margaery's fingers when they're free. It's easier to be with her now, knowing that she doesn't have some hopeless crush on the popular girl in school who will never like her back. If that kiss is anything to go by, Margaery definitely likes her back. Sansa's chest flutters and she's grinning before she can stop it.

Margaery glances at her out of the corner of her eye, an amused tilt to her lips. “What're you smiling about?” she asks.

“You,” Sansa says, and is delighted when the mighty Margaery's cheeks turn pink.

Margaery drives them the entire way across the city. They chat a little but not much, and mostly about school. Sansa's complaining about having too much to do all at once and Margaery laughs softly and agrees, wishing that teachers would collaborate more and save their poor students such a headache, especially around mid-terms and finals. Soon, Sansa's attention is diverted to the old buildings surrounding them. The Red Keep looms ever closer, its towers a blur of red against the setting sun as they drive round it.

“Loras and I's flat is just up there,” Margaery says, pointing, but they don't stop to turn off the road. “There's a lovely park here that I used to run every morning my first couple years here. It has one of the best views of the Keep in the city. I thought you'd like it.” She sounds hopeful and nervous all at once, and Sansa's still surprised that Margaery can be anything but confident and self-assured.

She squeezes Margaery's fingers. “Are you going to tell me what's in the bag?”

“Food,” Margaery replies, twisting her hand free so she can signal and turn into a lot across the street from the largest expanse of green and trees that Sansa has seen in the city so far. “Wine.”

“Planning to get me drunk before you have your wicked way with me?” Sansa teases. Margaery's cheeks go bright red and she stares at Sansa with an almost offended, certainly shocked look on her face, but her eyes are so dark Sansa can hardly see the brown in them. Sansa represses a shudder. Her joke doesn't feel like much of a joke any more. She wonders what it would take to get Margaery to kiss her again, or if she's allowed to make the first move herself. She's never been good at this.

“I would never stoop to such... barbaric ways,” Margaery says, turning her key and slipping it into her pocket. Her gaze turns deviant. “If you're in my bed I guarantee it'll be of your own will. Sober.” Sansa looks away, worrying her lip, her face hot. Margaery winks at her and gets out, retrieving her bag from the back. Sansa joins her, and with a smile that's far more tame, Margaery takes her hand and leads her across the street. Normally Sansa would object to needing to haul a hoodie around with her when the weather is so warm, but there's already a chill in the air that hints to a cooler night, and Sansa knows Margaery enough to trust that she wouldn't have suggested Sansa bring it if it would sit to the side unused all night.

Margaery stops them near a tree on top of a hill and kneels to open her bag, removing a blanket from the top and spreading it across the ground without asking Sansa to help, half of it in the fading sun and the other half in the shade of the tree. She smiles and gestures and Sansa sits, watching Margaery pull out a bottle of wine that Sansa knows is expensive just from the label. She's seen it in the cellar at home before, the year one that her father only ever breaks out for special occasions.

“Do you just keep that lying around?” Sansa asks.

Margaery sets out tupperware with food, the plastic already gathering condensation, and shakes her head. “It was a gift for Renly, but he absolutely hates wine, so he gave it to Loras, but Loras doesn't like wine either, but it was too good to just give away. I guess we could have sent it home but Dad would never drink it.” She pours two plastic glasses full for them. “I thought you might enjoy it.”

“It's expensive,” Sansa says, but drinks.

“I know,” Margaery replies with a shrug, peeking at the sides of each container before popping the lid off one holding cubes of fruit and fishing out a small bag of toothpicks. She spears a fruit and holds it up for Sansa's consideration.

“What is it?” Sansa asks, resting her wine glass on her thigh.

“A medley. Have a taste and find out.” Aware that she's blushing, Sansa hesitates, then leans forward and pulls the fruit off of the pick with her teeth, crunching into it. Apple. “Good?” Sansa nods and licks her lips. “Good.” Margaery settles next to her with the food spread in front of them. Their shoulders touch. Would it be too much too soon to lean into her? She watches Margaery pluck a piece of fruit off her toothpick. They've kissed, she reminds herself. Of course it wouldn't be too much to lean against her. So she does, nestling her head against Margaery's shoulder and watching traffic both pedestrian and auto.

It's a proper date. Sansa feels herself smiling. Like those dates with Elinor, but with all the heart pounding and nervous butterflies that she reads about in all her books. She can still hardly process that Margaery feels the same, that she might be sat there next to her feeling just as nervous as Sansa is, just as full of jitters and anticipation. But it's nice, the silence between them, and Margaery packed little sandwiches as well. Sansa digs into them, stomach growling.

“Did you make all this?” she asks and Margaery laughs sweetly, shaking her head.

“Loras. He's the cook, I know I've told you. I may have... well-” Her face is pink again.

“You may have what?” Sansa pushes with a little nudge of her shoulder against Margaery's. Margaery clears her throat and turns her head away, mumbling something under her breath. “What?”

“I said I may have gushed to him about you. On more than one occasion.”

“Really?” Sansa asks, and thinks that she really needs to stop blushing about Margaery or she's going to spend the next several months constantly looking like a tomato. “You-you talked to him about me?” Joffrey had bragged, Sansa knows that, but as far as she knew he had never actually _talked_ about her to anyone.

“Yeah,” Margaery says and glances at Sansa with a smile. “He said he wants to meet you, if that's okay.”

“I'd love to,” Sansa says even though the thought of meeting Margaery's brother, someone she obviously cares deeply for, makes Sansa's guts twist with nerves. Margaery's grin widens, and she twists around to press and kiss to Sansa's cheek. Sansa's breath sticks in her throat. By the way she feels Margaery's lips twist against her skin, she knows it hasn't gone unnoticed. Margaery slides a hand over her knee, rubbing gentle circles with her thumb. It's nice, the quiet between them. Margaery smells like roses and soap and laundry.

Sansa could fall asleep like this, her head on Margaery's shoulder and her nose pressed to her neck. She finishes her wine and lets Margaery fill her glass up again. Margaery only has a glass, and after Sansa's second she shoves the cork back into the bottle and slips it into the bag. Her hand returns to Sansa's leg, warm and firm. It wouldn't take much for Sansa to kiss her. All she has to do is sit up and turn her head a bit and Margaery's lips will be right in front of her. She probably tastes like apples and melon. Sansa licks her lips.

“Maybe this weekend?” Margaery asks. “The boys will be home. You can bring any work you need to get done, then we can have a nice dinner and some drinks. Loras is dying to meet you, honestly.”

“Sure,” Sansa replies absently, watching the city slowly grow dark, still wondering if she's allowed to kiss Margaery or not. She doesn't need her hoodie, not with Margaery's body so warm against her. Kissing would make them even warmer. She loops her arm through Margaery's and finds her hand, lacing their fingers together. “This was really nice. Thanks.”

Margaery is quiet. Sansa can just hear the sound of her breathing over the noise of cars and buses and bikes. Sansa knows they can't stay much longer. They both have class in the morning, and Margaery has to drive the length of the city twice to get Sansa home then back to her and Loras' flat, and Sansa has no desire to get kicked out of the park for loitering there after dark. She knows better than to mess with KL police. She wishes they didn't have to leave.

But leave they must. Sansa helps Margaery pack up the food and glasses and holds her hand the entire walk back to the dark. It's nice how their hands fit together in a way that feels more right than hers and Elinor's ever did. Margaery gives her fingers a little squeeze before they part. They sit in silence in the car, one of Margaery's hands around the key but not turning. She's biting her lip. Sansa opens her mouth to ask what's wrong, but before she can Margaery is kissing her, pressing her back into the car seat with a hand on her cheek. It doesn't last long but it burns and Sansa's lips are tingling when she pulls away.

“I've wanted to do that since I left,” Margaery says, breathless and flushed.

Sansa sighs, shutting her eyes. “I'm really glad you did,” she mutters. Margaery kisses the corner of her mouth, lingers, brushes them fully across Sansa's again. She starts the car. Sansa's lips buzz the whole drive back. It goes far too quickly for her liking. Margaery doesn't walk her up, but they kiss long and slow with the car rumbling gently beneath them. Margaery's kisses steal Sansa's breath away. Her nose brushes Sansa's cheek.

“I'll miss you,” Margaery whispers. “Is it too soon to say that?” Sansa can't help but laugh. Margaery's confidence faltering will never fail to amuse her.

“You'll be here tomorrow, won't you?” Sansa asks and Margaery blushes.

“Yeah, but I'm not sure I want to face my cousin in that study group of yours, and your classes run late, don't they?” She tucks Sansa's hair behind her ear, knuckles dragging along her jaw. “I can pick you up Friday night and you can stay over, if you like.”

“Yeah,” Sansa replies through a smile. “Friday night.” She initiates the kiss this time, Margaery's lips soft and supple against her own, pleasantly yielding. They whisper goodbyes through awkward giggles and Sansa slips away, lingering to watch Margaery drive away before turning towards her building with a grin as bright as the sun on her face.

 

Friday can't come soon enough, but there's a lingering dread in Sansa's stomach the closer study group draws. She doesn't know if either of Margaery's cousins will be there, but she's not sure can can face either of them after everything that's happened. Elinor will surely still be her friend once she's had time to get over Sansa's not quite break up break up, and Alla... Well, maybe she won't even show up. She hopes.

Sansa bites her nails all through her last class. Maybe she doesn't have to go at all. It's not like it's required. Maybe it would make her a coward, but she has other things to do. Loads of schoolwork. Essays. Exams to study for. A girlfriend to text.

Her teeth catch her fingertip and she winces and yanks her hand away, shaking it with a scowl. One of her classmates glances at her with a small frown on his face. Girlfriend. _Girlfriend._ She shouldn't jump to conclusions, even if they did spend half an afternoon kissing and even if they have gone on an actual date. One date doesn't make a couple. _Two_ dates doesn't make a couple. She can feel her face burning, and really wishes her classmate would stop staring because it's only making everything worse.

She doesn't go to the library after class, and her phone starts to vibrate in her pocket as she's flipping through her keys. Margaery's texts make her grin, even though they're nothing more than hellos and asking her how her day was. They send butterflies racing through Sansa's stomach, and it's stupid how infatuated Sansa is with Margaery, but she can't stop it. It's like she's at the top of a rollercoaster and she's scared and exhilarated but there's no getting off now and the car is going to zip down along the tracks whether she likes it or not.

She doesn't hear anything from Elinor, and wonders if she even went to the study group in the first place. There probably isn't any point without Sansa there. If her and Alla want to study together they can do so in the privacy of their dorm, however they want to. Neither of them really need Sansa around. Neither of them probably want her around at this point. Her happiness dulls. She hopes Alla isn't giving her cousin a hard time. Sansa knows that if people had come up to her after Joffrey had revealed his true colours full of smug smiles and I told you so's she would have gone mad.

When she emails her parents she doesn't say anything about either girl. There will be time for later, when she has the courage (if she ever has the courage). She leaves her work for the weekend, does her laundry, has leftovers for dinner, and falls asleep texting Margaery about her day, feeling rather alone in her bed. She dreams about her family, going home from the holidays with Margaery there with her. She steals a kiss under mistletoe when no one is looking and when Arya asks why Sansa's face is red all she does is blush harder.

 


	13. Chapter 13

She's almost as nervous about meeting Margaery's brother as she was about her dates with Elinor and inviting Margaery over and pretty much everything else involving the Tyrells. Margaery texts when she's left the flat and is on her way, and in rush hour traffic it leaves Sansa with a good hour or so to do her hair (she braids it) and her make up (enough to cover a few small bumps on her skin but not much else), get dressed (casual, she tells herself, be casual) and pack an overnight bag. She feels way too laden down when Margaery announces her presence with a rhythmic knock, but she knows she isn't. Margaery even offers to carry her bag for her and silences Sansa's protest with a finger against her lips.

“You all right?”she asks while they wait for the lift. Sansa inhales deeply and catches a hint of her perfume. It's lighter today than usual. Sansa bites back a smile. She must have only put some on for Sansa's benefit. The lift dings.

“Yeah,”Sansa says. “Nervous.”

“Oh, don't be,” Margaery says, screwing her nose up slightly. “Loras will love you. Just tell me if he gets too obnoxious and I'll give him a smack for you.” She glances over and laughs at the shocked look on Sansa's face. “Please, with two brothers of your own I'm sure you've hit them once or twice.”

“Usually I hit my sister,” Sansa replies, and Margaery chuckles. As the lift slows, Margaery adjusts her hold on Sansa's bag and reaches for her hand. Sansa lets her, returning the small squeeze Margery gives her fingers. People glance at them as they walk through the campus to the car park, but no one says anything. Sansa supposes that's the advantage of being a girl. Close friends hold hands all the time and no one thinks anything of it. Sansa feels safe enough not to let go until she has to, wishing that Margaery could hold her hand and change gears a the same time.

They rolls the windows down and turn the music up, letting jazz filter out into the air around them. It's mild enough out, and surprisingly dry. The wind pulls insistently at Sansa's hair, trying to loosen her braid like plucking fingers. When the car slows or stills and the roaring whistle of the breeze lessens, Sansa can hear Margaery humming softly, glancing at her with her dark eyes and smiling. Sansa's heart does flips the entire way to Aegon's High Hill, and it's only partly because of nerves.

 

Loras is very clearly very gay. No straight boy Sansa's ever known is as fashionable as he is, even if they have sisters willing to help them dress, not to mention the flat smells clean and fresh (and faintly like roses) and looks tidy and things are already set out for dinner. The very coupley pictures of Loras with a dark haired boy with a scruffy beard scattered about are only the icing on the cake. He pulls Sansa into a brotherly hug the moment her and Margaery are in the flat and to her horror Sansa feels herself blushing.

“It's so lovely to meet you,” Loras says, grinning. Him and Margaery almost look like twins. They have the same eyes, the same thick lashes, the same lazy ringlets of chestnut hair. Sansa glances over her shoulder at Margaery. They have the same smile, too. “Marg hasn't shut up about you since school started.” It's Margaery's turn to blush a very becoming shade of pink.

“Is that true?” Sansa asks. “Have you been talking about me?”

“You know I have,” Margaery mumbles, shutting the door behind her and stepping forward to give Loras a quick hug. Sansa just hears her mumble something about having his bollocks for dinner. Loras only chuckles. “This way, Sansa,” Margaery continues, smacking Loras on the ass when he heads for the kitchen. “Bedroom's this way. You can drop your bag off and I'll help you with your schoolwork while we wait for dinner.”

There's only one bed. Sansa doesn't know why she expected anything different. Of course there's only one bed. Margaery's a grown woman. She has her own room. She certainly wouldn't share it with Loras. It's a _large_ bed, room for them both with some to spare, but the thought of sharing it with Margaery makes her chest seize up. Maybe she can just sleep on the floor... Margaery takes her bag from her and puts in on the foot of the bed. Sansa glances around. Either Margaery is naturally tidy or she cleaned specifically because Sansa was visiting. She almost hopes it's the latter. The sweetness of the gesture is enough to clear some of the tightness from around her ribs.

She doesn't know why she expected Margaery to have a bare, professional looking room, but there's band posters plastered onto the walls and her duvet is striped green and gold. There are roses in a vase on her dresser, a mix of red and yellow with an orange-red at the petal tips. Sansa wants to smell them, but resists the urge, and instead unzips her bag and fishes out her schoolwork. One step at a time, she thinks, hugging her books to her chest and following Margaery back out to the living room.

While Sansa sets her things up at the dining room table, Margaery snags the TV remote off the back of the sofa and turns on the new,s adjusting the volume as necessary. Loras catches her eye and makes a displeased face that has Sansa giggling.

Margaery turns at the sound and rolls her eyes, taking herself and the remote back to the table and sits in the empty chair next to Sansa. “Laugh all you like,” she says, settling back, “but if I'm going to be a successful politician, then I need to stay up to date with current events.”

“You know the news isn't exactly the most trustworthy source of information,” Loras replies, his back to them.

“Yes, but it's worth it to know as many angles as I can.” Loras doesn't argue. Sansa doesn't blame him. She might still be learning, but she knows that Margaery is stubborn at best. Besides, it's only an hour.

An hour that Sansa spends dutifully scribbling away at her coursework while Margaery watches the reports and occasionally makes a comment to Loras, who has at least for the moment allowed Sansa a reprieve from the bountiful inquisition of questions he no doubt want to interrogate her with. She's just finishing off the first half of an essay and reaching for the tea Loras poured them both when Margaery's hand settles on her leg, just above her knee, and she jumps and almost knocks her mug over. Margaery smiles softly at her and kisses her cheek. Loras coos at them, and Margaery makes a rude gesture and sticks out her tongue. Loras returns it and they look even more like twins. Margaery squeezes her leg and rubs it, a gentle pressure moving along her thigh. Even through her jeans Sansa's skin tingles.

Loras has dinner on the table in time to steal the remote away from Margaery when the news ends and put on something far more pleasant to listen to. Margaery lets him without a fuss, content with having watched her program. Sansa pushes her work to the side. She's done a fair bit, enough that the rest can wait until tomorrow.

“Will you have wine, Sansa? I brought this with me when we moved. One of the best vintages in the Reach.” Flattered, Sansa accepts. Margaery moves her hand to spear and cut a chicken breast and spoon rice and broccoli onto her plate, but returns it soon after. Loras grins at them, a crooked twist of his mouth, then focuses amber eyes on Sansa. She braces herself for the incoming barrage.

Loras already knows a great deal, which makes Sansa wonder exactly how much Margaery has been talking about her. She glances at Margaery out of the corner of her eye and catches another rush of pink across the girl's tan cheeks. She drops her hand beneath the table and squeezes Margaery's fingers.

“So,” Loras finally says, pulling Sansa's attention back to him. “How long, exactly, have you and my sister been dating? She was quite hush hush on the matter.” Margaery splutters and goes as red as her drink, glaring at her brother. Her fingers tighten a fraction around Sansa's thigh. “What?” Loras asks, all innocence and pouting lips.

Margaery drinks deeply. “We're not dating,” she says. Loras looks confused. Sansa fights the urge to squirm in her seat.

“What?” Loras says. “You mean you haven't asked her yet? All you've been going on about for the past month is this girl and you've kissed her and taken her out on _two_ dates, but you haven't asked her to be your girlfriend yet?” Margaery jerks and Loras yelps, twisting in his chair and looking very offended.

“I was _going to_ ,” she replies, “until you opened your big mouth and ruined it.” Loras mumbles an apology and Sansa's face warms. Her stomach twists. Her heart pounds. She squeezes Margaery's hand hard. Margaery was going to ask her out. To be her _girlfriend_. Her mouth feels dry. She hadn't thought this far ahead. She hadn't thought that she stood a chance of Margaery even _liking_ her back, let alone enough to want to date her. Officially. They're both looking at her now. Sansa doesn't manage more than a stuttered, “uh.”

“Don't you have a pie to put in the oven, Loras?” Margaery asks pointedly. Loras darts out of his chair, hiding in the safety of the kitchen. Margaery sighs and starts to collect plates, and Sansa silently moves to help. “I'm sorry,” Margaery says. “It was supposed to be a surprise. Only goes to show I should know better than to tell Loras anything. Bloody idiot.” She glares at her brother and he pouts. It's so attractive that Sansa's forgiven him already. The boys of King's Landing certainly have their hands full with him. Or, well, one boy does.

“Do you really want to ask me out?” Sansa asks when they're out of Loras' earshot, sitting close on the sofa but not overly so. There's an awkwardness to the air around them.

Margaery looks at her like she's grown two heads. “Of course I do,” she says.

“Why?” Sansa asks before she can stop herself.

“Why wouldn't I?” Margaery asks, frowning. She takes Sansa's hand between both of hers and squeezes it tightly. “Sansa, you're one of the most wonderful, loveliest people I've ever met.”

“No, I'm not,” Sansa replies automatically. “I'm nothing special.”

Margaery is only quiet for a handful of seconds, her brows furrowed and her lips turned down at the corners, but it feels like hours. Finally, she brushes Sansa's hair out of her face and touches her cheek softly. “What happened to make you think that, Sansa?”

Sansa thinks of Joffrey and his cruel smiles, of the marks on the insides of her thighs, and bites her lip. Margaery leans in and kisses her softly, fingers gentle on Sansa's cheek. She lingers until Sansa kisses back and her shoulders relax. There's a clatter in the kitchen and Sansa blushes and pulls away, clearing her throat. Margaery's lips replace her fingers on Sansa's cheek. She nudges Sansa with her nose.

“I know the surprise has been spoiled now,” she says, leaning back to meet Sansa's eyes, “but I really do want you to be my girlfriend. What do you say?” Her hand is warm on Sansa's, and her eyes nervous, but safe. Sansa fills her lungs with air and exhales. The tension in her chest leaves with her breath. She nods, and Margaery smiles so brightly she could light up the city with it. She kisses Sansa once, twice, then laughs breathlessly. Sansa can't help but smile as well. Loras, seeing that the coast is clear, joins them on the sofa, effectively squashing Margaery against Sansa's side.

“Well,” he says, “now that the two of you have finally sorted that out, how long d'you think it'll be before Sansa can meet Renly? He's very gallant, Sansa, you'll love him.”

 

The pie is some of the best Sansa's ever tasted. She never really fancied pumpkin before, but after tasting this (a family recipe, Loras tells her proudly) she thinks she'll have to change her opinion on it. Loras promises to put some in a tupperware for her to take back with her, and says she's welcome to whatever leftovers she wants. He falls asleep on the opposite end of the sofa around eleven. Sansa's feeling sleepy herself, legs across Margaery's lap and her girlfriend ( _girlfriend!_ )'s fingers rubbing non-existent knots out of her calves. Loras snorts in his sleep and starts to snore. Margaery rolls her eyes and punches his shoulder. He grunts and blinks, glaring at her through slitted eyes, then promptly dozes off again.

“Maybe that's a sign that we should retire,” Margaery says softly, smiling. Sansa's nerves flame like flames doused in gasoline. She tenses, and Margaery's hands still on her leg. “Sansa? You all right?”

“Yeah,” Sansa says and swallows over the lump in her throat. “Yeah, just tired. Where am I...”

“Going to sleep?” Margaery finishes with a smile. “Well my bed is big enough for both of us, but I think there's a sleeping bag around here somewhere if you'd rather I sleep on the floor.”

“I couldn't take your bed,” Sansa replies.

Margaery pushes her legs down and stands with a grunt. “You're not taking it if I offer. Besides, it's my house. If I say you're sleeping in my bed that's where you're sleeping, so, really, it all depends on if you feel like sharing it with me or not.” The thought of sharing makes Sansa feel hot all over. Margaery chuckles at the blush on her cheeks. “Is that a no?”

“I mean it sounds great but maybe it's too early in our relationship for that kind of behaviour,” Sansa replies, trying to keep her voice from trembling. She mostly succeeds.

Margaery smiles, and gesture towards the back of the flat. “Bathroom is there. You get ready and I'll find out where that sleeping bag has gone.” Sansa mumbles an okay and scurries off to fetch her night bag from the bedroom, bundling her pyjamas and her toiletries against her chest. She can hear Margaery talking softly to Loras through the open door, and when she slips back out of the room they're both gone. There's rustling from down the hall, a thump, Margaery yelping and Loras laughing. She slips into the bathroom.

Her hands shake when she brushes her teeth and washes her minimal make up off. She shouldn't be so nervous, but she can't help it. Her heart threatens to break free from her ribs. It's nothing, she tells herself. It's just a night, and Margaery will sleep on the floor (Sansa feels bad for it no matter how much she tells herself that Margaery is the one who suggested it to begin with). There's no reason for the panic clawing at her chest. Most girls would kill to spend a night with a girl like Margaery as her _friend_ let alone as something more. Sansa should count herself lucky.

Margaery's already dressed for bed when Sansa gets back and is spreading a blanket out on the floor. She's made quite the bed for herself, piled high with pillows and enough blankest that she needn't fear being cold, and still left enough on the bed for Sansa's comfort. She shouldn't look so effortlessly gorgeous, face wiped clean and hair loose in shorts and a t-shirt, but she looks even more beautiful here, smiling at Sansa when she turns, than she does when she's made a proper presentation of herself. Sansa's breath catches in her throat. She barely manages to close the door behind her. Neither of them say anything.

Margaery twirls her hair around her finger. Finally she clears her throat. “Come on then. Get in bed.” Sansa goes red. Margaery chuckles. “Not like that, sweetling.” There's a hint of colour on her cheeks as well. _Gods, is it supposed to be this awkward?_ Sansa smiles and clears her bag off the bed and tucks it out of the way and plugs her phone in next to Margaery's on the nightstand. She's about to get into bed when Margaery catches her wrist and pulls her close. Sansa can feel the warm from her body through her clothes, and when they kiss she tastes like toothpaste.

“Good night, Sansa,” Margaery whispers with a little smile. She kisses her again, nothing more than a little peck, and steps back. “I'm right here if you need anything.” It's comforting, but it doesn't lessen the knot in her chest. Margaery smiles one last time and Sansa waits until she's shuffling about in her makeshift bed before clicking the lamp on the table and climbing off. The room fills with soft sighs and the rustle of fabric and soft thump of pillows being fluffed until the both of them are settled and then nothing but silence.

 


	14. Chapter 14

Sansa can hear Margaery breathing, soft little puffs of breath that sound loud in the quiet. She listens, hearing the inhales grow longer and deeper, and within minutes Margaery is asleep. Sansa is not granted the same luxury. The fear comes creeping in, snaking up her throat and threatening to choke her. She clutches blankets that smells like Margaery's skin to her and hides her face in a pillow that smells like her hair. No matter what she does Margaery is all around her. Her heart pounds hard. She's achingly aware of every beat. She's all too familiar of the symptoms. Not now, she thinks, squeezing her eyes shut, not now, not while Margaery is right there.

But she can't stop the thoughts that come flooding in. This has all happened before. All the charming smiles, all the pretty words. Just because Sansa doesn't sense any deception doesn't mean it isn't there. She was nothing more than a toy for Joffrey, a pretty thing that he could show off and use however he wanted, someone he could force to idolize him. What's to stop Margaery from doing the same thing? There's a small voice in the back of her mind that screams at her that Margaery has never been anything but kind and genuine and selfless where every action Joffrey did only served to boost his own ego, but it's quickly silenced by a crushing doubt.

Sansa curls up in Margaery's bed. She can still hear her breathing, the deep steady in and out of sleep. She tries to even out her breathing to match, but as soon as she feels herself starting to relax and draw close to her own sleep her body tenses again and a cold heat blooms in her chest. As quietly as she can Sansa slips out of bed and out into the hall, down to the spare bathroom. The face in the mirror is pale as a ghost.

“You're being stupid,” Sansa says to her reflection, gripping the edges of the sink hard. “Margaery is _not_ Joffrey. She's _not_.” She splashes water on her face, icy cold, until her cheeks are starting to feel pinched and numb, then dabs her skin dry with a towel and quietly retreats back to the bed. Margaery's rolled onto her back but otherwise hasn't moved. Sansa shuts the door softly and stares as her eyes adjust to the dark and Margaery's form becomes more defined. For a moment Sansa lingers by the door, eyes darting between Margaery stretched out on the floor and the rumpled sheets on the bed, then chooses the bed. Sleep doesn't come easily, but it does come.

She's not alone when she wakes up. Still caught in the haze of slumber, Sansa inches automatically towards the warmth at her back. The arm around her waist cinches tighter, and a cool nose nuzzles the back of Sansa's neck. She blinks her eyes open. The room is the grey of dawn, pink around the edges of the curtains. She inhales roses. The body behind her stirs. Sansa knows it's Margaery without needing to turn and look, and in her half awake state wonders how they got so close when Margaery was on the ground at the foot of the bed.

“You were having a nightmare,” Margaery mutters, her lips brushing the side of Sansa's neck. Her voice is rough with sleep, gravelly and gorgeous. Her breath is warm. “Wouldn't wake up, but you calmed down when I got in.” Sansa feels her smile, and imagines the cocky look on her face. She's still too tired to think, so all she does is sigh and relax back into the pillow, and enjoy the feel of Margaery's hand on her stomach. It's easy to doze off again.

When she wakes the second time her guard is up, and she scolds herself for letting it drop in the first place. All of her fear comes rushing back in, and the panic follows. The scars on her legs ache. Sansa pulls out of Margaery's embrace and makes for her clothes. Margaery grumbles sleepily from the bed and sighs. Sansa doesn't look.

“Where are you going?” Margaery asks sleepily, mumbling

“I-I gotta go home. I need to finish my assignments and being around you is too distracting.” Sansa fumbles into her jeans, aware of Margaery's eyes on her.

“Too distracting, am I?” Margaery replies coyly. She's taken it as a compliment. Sansa isn't entirely sure if that's how she meant it or not, but it saves her the difficulty of a proper explanation. She doesn't bother changing her shirt. The blankets rustle as Margaery moves, and a handful of seconds later Sansa feels arms wrap around her waist and squeeze. When she stiffens Margaery's grip loosens, and she presses her face to the back of Sansa's shoulder. “I can have a kiss goodbye at least, right?” she asks. Sansa can't say no. She turns in Margaery's arms and bends her head. It's only a quick brush of their lips, but it sets her heart racing again and sends shivers over her skin, and it's enough to satisfy Margaery.

“I'll text you,” Sansa mumbles instead of goodbye.

“Do you want me to drive you home?”

“No. I'll just get the bus.”

“Sansa.”

“It's fine.” She sounds too tightly wound, even to her own ears.

Margaery rolls her eyes and takes her hand. “At least let me walk you to the door. Loras is going to be upset you're not staying for breakfast.”

“I'll make it up to him,” Sansa mumbles. She needs to leave. She needs to be able to breathe. She can't do that with Margaery so close to her. She never can. Margaery doesn't argue with her, but she does pull Sansa in for another kiss that denies her lungs air they're already starving for. She's smiling when Sansa pulls away and fumbles for the doorknob. “Bye,” she says, and closes the door on Margaery's wave.

Guilt seeps into her chest with each step she takes away from the front door. She imagines Margaery's brows furrowed down, her lips jut barely pouting, confusion bright in her eyes. She imagines going back and feeling Margaery's lips on hers again, apologizing for being an idiot and taking her back to bed to burrow under sweet smelling blankets and press her nose against the warm flesh at the base of Margaery's throat. She doesn't. She puts one foot in front of the other and keeps walking until she's at the bus stop, feeling too hot under the sun, and wishing that she was at home where it never gets this hot even at the height of summer.

The bus is stuffy and crowded with morning shoppers and their bags. Sansa ends up squished against the edge of a seat with someone's bag poking painfully into her ribs. When she's just close enough to walk back to KLU, she presses the STOP button and wiggles her way off. It might be hot outside but at least the air is fresh enough for her to breathe. She's worked up a sweat within a few minutes, her brisk pace working some of the tension out of her legs. She rolls her shoulders and her neck, sighs heavily. She wants nothing more than to crawl into bed, and that's exactly what she does, hiding from her thoughts and fears under blankets that smell like detergent and not at all like Margaery's perfume.

 

She aggressively ignores all of Margaery's texts under the guise of being completely engrossed in her schoolwork, which is partly true. Mostly, she can't stand the painful thumping of her heart whenever her phone chirps. She can't stand the knowledge that whatever Margaery asks of her she can't refuse, even if it's something she wants to do. The knowledge that her and Margaery are officially together sits heavily at the bottom of her chest, pushing into her ribs.

It's harder to avoid Margaery when they have class together. Margaery isn't overly affectionate, careful to let Sansa decide what's the right amount of public affection to put on display, but there's no mistaking the flash of hurt across Margaery's face when Sansa pulls out of her greeting embrace a little too quickly. There's a tight set to her jaw, but she doesn't say anything, and politely holds the classroom door open for Sansa to step through.

They've moved past the War now, into the period of reformation that followed the re-unification of the Seven Kingdoms into one country, what it meant for the women of the era to have a queen ruling over them rather than a king. Sansa focuses completely on the lecture and not at all on Margaery, whose head is bent dutifully over her books, pen scratching against her notebook. It feels like a complete reversal of the start of the school year, but she's not looking at Margaery for different reasons now. And she knows that Margaery knows it. Sansa can see it in the stiff line in her shoulders. Guilt nips at her stomach again.

Margaery touches her arm when the lecture ends. “Are you okay?” Her fingers burn Sansa's arm. “Is this about yesterday?”

“No,” Sansa says.

“It is, isn't it,” Margaery replies. Her grip tightens, not enough to hurt but enough to keep Sansa at her side. She leads them out into the hall and off to the side out of the flow of student traffic. “If you didn't want to be my girlfriend you should have just said no.”

“It isn't that,” Sansa says, sighing.

“Then what is it, Sansa?” There's a sharpness to her voice that Sansa hasn't heard before, and she sees then just how much she's wounded the other girl, intentionally or not. She blushes and chews on her lip. How can she explain to Margaery something she hasn't even told her family about? She digs her nails into the palm of her hand and tries to breathe through the knot in her chest. Margaery's brow is wrinkled. Her fingers fall from Sansa's arm. “Is it something I've done?”

“No,” Sansa says weakly.

“You're not going to tell me, are you?” Margaery asks. Sansa doesn't know what she's expected to say. She's all too aware of the marks on her legs, the physical remnants of Joffrey's all too strong influence on her. “Fine. Have it your way.” Margaery stalks away before Sansa can say anything to keep her from going, around the corner and out of sight. Sansa hugs herself fiercely. She knows she's not an expert on relationships, and she knows her history, her one experience with dating isn't exactly the most accurate picture to draw from, but she's pretty sure that having a fight with her girlfriend not even a full day after officially becoming girlfriends isn't how things are supposed to go.

She feels utterly alone. Elinor won't want to hear about her relationship problems, and she can stop counting Alla as a friend now, if she can't accept that Sansa's ga-that Sansa likes _any_ girl, let alone her cousin. Her family, even though she can easily text or call them, feel an entire world away. In that moment, staring after a long gone Margaery in an empty hallway, Sansa has never wished for the high, crumbling walls of Winterfell more.

 


	15. Chapter 15

She buys a tub of ice cream from a shop down the road before she goes back to her flat for the day and eats it all. Her books sit untouched on the table, her laptop black next to them. In her pocket her phone is silent. She could text her brothers, she thinks. She could even text Arya, but how much would they be able to help her? How much could she even tell them? Nothing. She can't tell them about Margaery and her kisses and soft words and how they scare the living shit out of her.

She's half asleep on the sofa when there's a timid knock at her door. Groggily, Sansa rouses herself and pads over, rubbing at sleepies in the corners of her eyes and opening the door without bothering to check and see who it is. When she blinks her eyes into focus there's a familiar form standing in front of her. Margaery smiles shyly, twirling the rose she holds in her hand between her fingers. It's the same yellow with ruby kissed petal tips as the ones in the vase on Margaery's dresser.

She looks up at Sansa through thick lashes. “Hey.” And she's holding out the rose to Sansa, the stem carefully trimmed free of thorns. Sansa takes it carefully from her, the pads of her fingers brushing over Margaery's first knuckles. “I wanted to apologize as soon as I left, but stubbornness runs in the family, and by the time I got back you were already gone.” Margaery tilts her head, looking past Sansa into the room. Sansa can tell she wants to ask to come in, but she doesn't, just smiles and shoves her hands into her pockets. “Would you like to come over again after class tomorrow? Renly will be in. It's all right if you don't.”

“What about tutoring?” Sansa hears herself ask, and it's the stupidest thing she could have said. Margaery doesn't care about tutoring. But Margaery smiles and leans up to kiss Sansa's cheek. Sansa touches the place with her fingertips.

“You can tutor me after dinner,” Margaery says. “It's nice talking about it with you, even if I'll always be completely useless at it.”

“You're not useless,” Sansa mumbles.

Margaery's cheeks dimple. “Is that a yes, then?” Sansa nods. Margaery takes a step back, her smile crooked. “See you tomorrow,” she says, and strides down the hall. Sansa waits until she's in the lift before shutting the door and leaning against it, holding the rose to her nose. It smells like Margaery's bedroom. She finds a tall glass and fills it with water, and places the rose on the table with her books. The scent curls in the air as she skims through her required reading, thinking about the spots of gold in Margaery's eyes.

 

They talk about Sappho in Lannister's lecture, and it sends half the class to giggling and the other to blushing. Sansa is in the later, keeping her face turned down to her desk while Professor Lannister tells his students to behave themselves with a smile in his voice. The class settles down after a handful of minutes, with only the occasional snicker here and there. Sansa studiously takes notes in the margins of her book, more to help Margaery than herself. There's more anxiousness mingling with her excitement when she meets up with Margaery, waiting for her under the large tree in the middle of the green. Margaery doesn't reach for her hand, but she does smile and dart in to kiss Sansa's cheek in a hello. She asks about Sansa's day and if she needs to pick anything up before they leave, and walks close enough that their knuckles brush.

“No fancy dinner tonight, I'm afraid,” Margaery says in the car. “We've ordered in some Dornish, but if you're not in the mood there's still plenty of leftovers. Loras still has that pie for you, unless Renly's gotten his hands on it. Boy could eat for Westeros, and I don't have a clue where he puts it all.” Her good mood soothes some of Sansa's worries. If she's already forgotten about their incident the day before, then there's no use in Sansa fretting over it. Besides, a night with her friends (and girlfriend) will give her something other than school to write home about, and while her parents haven't outright said anything, Sansa knows they're worried she's shutting herself away in her room all the time.

There's music on the other side of the door and when Margaery opens it the notes come wafting out on spicy air. There's bags on the kitchen counter behind Loras, who's rummaging in a cupboard and emerges with paper plates, and a dark-haired boy lounging on the sofa playing a game on his phone. He tips his head back when Margaery shuts the door loud enough to get both the boys' attention and grins at them.

“Sansa, meet Renly,” Margaery says with a flourish of her hand. Renly sits up to turn the music down. “Renly, this is Sansa, my girlfriend.” The word sends flutters through Sansa's stomach. She grins at Renly. He looks like his brother, although a good deal younger than Robert. Despite her father's friendship with the Baratheons, Sansa had never had an opportunity to meet them. The family patriarch's were both too busy to do more than email back and forth, and Ned Stark kept business associates and his family apart, no matter how close he was to them.

“She's a pretty one, Marg,” Renly comments. Sansa blushes and smiles at Loras when he comes over to plant a kiss on Margaery's cheek. “Really outdid yourself this time.”

Margaery sticks her tongue out and dumps her bag by the door. “Make yourself comfortable, Sansa,” she says. “I'm going to change then we can eat.” Loras sets out plates for the four of them and fishes the take out containers out of their plastic bags, peeking in each one. The spices make Sansa's nose sting, and she knows she'll probably feel terrible tomorrow, but she's never had better Dornish than while in the capitol. The stuff up North just can't compare, no matter how hard they try. Loras sets out wine and glasses and Sansa pours some for herself and Margaery while Renly pops up at her side and starts dishing so much food onto his plate Sansa's surprised that the bottom doesn't fall out. He stops to steal a kiss from Loras then winks at Sansa and makes his way back to the sofa, fork in his mouth and a plate in one hand, wine glass in the other.

“Put on the news, would you Renly?” Margaery calls from her bedroom door. She pads out, twisting her hair into a loose bun at the nape of her neck, school clothes replaced by sweats and a worn t-shirt. When Sansa holds out a glass to her, she grins and holds onto Sansa's hand, kissing the corner of her mouth. Sansa glances to the sofa, but Renly isn't looking, and Loras' back is turned. “Sorry,” Margaery says. “Should I not do that?”

Sansa shrugs. “I know they won't care, it's just...”

“New,” Margaery finishes for her, taking her glass. “I know. Get your food and come sit before there's no room on the couch for us. I just want to watch the news and then we can study.”

 

Sappho is easier to understand than some of the other authors they've read, and Margaery has little trouble engaging in a discussion. Sansa feeds off her energy. Margaery is so normally tight-lipped about poetry, either not comprehending or more concerned about having satisfactory answers for their coursework than the actual works themselves. Sansa's never blamed her for it, but being able to actually _talk_ about the subject matter starts her babbling like she did the first time Margaery came over for a session. Margaery watches her with eager eyes, hanging on her every word.

“I read she killed herself,” Margaery says. “Because of a superstition that said the 'lover's-leap' would either destroy her or cure her of her love.”

Sansa stares at her. “You read-”

“Yes, Sansa, I read,” Margaery teases with a smile. “Quite a lot, actually.” Sansa takes a too large sip of wine to hide her embarrassment. Her head swims. A shout goes up from the living room, where Loras and Renly reclaimed the TV and are watching football. Margaery smiles at them. “Come on, that's enough school talk for the night, I think.” She tops up both their glasses, then after a short hesitation takes the bottle with them, nudging the boys over until there's room for her and Sansa to sit. It's a bit tight with the four of them, and Sansa almost spills her wine when Renly jolts forward and swears at the game. Margaery pats her lap, grinning, and Sansa twists around to fold her legs up across Margaery's thighs, leaning against back against the arm rest. Sansa has little interest in sports, but she imagines her brothers are acting the same as Loras and Renly. She drinks to replace the sharp pain in her chest with the warmth of wine.

The side Renly is rooting for are doing poorly, and he looks put out. Loras ruffles his hair and kisses his cheek, lingering, and it's so intimate that Sansa has to look away. Margaery rubs her knee gently. After a moment the sofa shifts as Loras gets up and goes to the bathroom and Renly to the kitchen. Sansa only notices then that the wine bottle is empty. How many glasses has she had? Renly comes back with four beers and a bottle opener, and opens his and Loras' before passing everything to Margaery. She presses the bottle into Sansa's hand.

“Cheers, sweetling,” she says and knocks her bottle against Sansa's. Sansa drinks. She doesn't taste it.

“I have an idea,” comes Loras' voice from behind them. He clambers over the sofa, jostling them all, and squishes between his sister and Renly. “Since there's no chance of our team winning this game, I say we put something else on and have a good game of never have I ever.”

Margaery rolls her eyes. “What are you, sixteen?”

“C'mon, Marg,” Loras says, giving her his best puppy dog eyes. “It's either that or drunk Cards Against Humanity, and this is _way_ more fun.”

“I'm game,” Renly says. Margaery agrees with a sigh. The three of them look at Sansa then, even though her answer hardly matters when she's outnumbered three to one. What harm could it do, she thinks, taking a long drink of her beer.

“All right.”

Sansa discovers very quickly that while she's never thought her life has been sheltered, there is a lot she hasn't done. She can't help but gape as Margaery takes drink after drink after drink (never have I ever smoked weed, peed in a bush, shaved my head). The last one makes Sansa and Renly both stare. Margaery shrugs it off.

“I was sixteen and rebellious,” she says, taking another drink. “It was only half.”

“It looked good,” Loras says with a little nod. “Had all the girls looking at you.” Margaery hums and glances at Sansa, her eyes warm and her smile giddy. “Right,” Loras announces. “Never have I ever.... shaved my balls.” Sansa chokes on her own spit, and Renly turns bright red.

“Loras!” Margaery scolds, frowning at her brother. “That's not fair. Sansa and I are girls.”

“Right, sorry,” Loras replies in a tone that says he isn't sorry at all. He fixes his sister with a stare and a mischievous smile twists his mouth. “Never have I ever been in handcuffs.” Margaery's cheeks are pink, but Sansa isn't sure if it's from the alcohol or the game. She tips her bottle back and finishes the last of her beer. Sansa stares at her mouth, at the angle of her fingers and her slender wrist, and for a brief moment the image of Margaery stretched out with her hands cuffed above her head is vivid in Sansa's mind. She presses her thighs together against the sudden heat that blooms between them and stares resolutely at her knees. Margaery's free hand rests on one of them, and her thumb has been rubbing small circles against the side for the past ten minutes.

“Finish your drink, Sansa,” Margaery says. Her eyes are dark, and her voice has a light slur to it. Sansa obediently tilts back her head and downs the rest of her beer.

“Another round?” Renly asks, rising from the couch with the aim of more drinks. Loras is looking at his sister with knowing eyes. He glances at his watch, and Sansa looks at the time on the cable box. Just going on eleven. Late for Sansa, but not for the others, she thinks. Just because she usually passes out around now doesn't mean that her companions should have to go to bed. Brain fuzzy, she distantly realizes that she isn't prepared to spend the night, and she'll either have a very late trip back to her dorm or have to borrow things off Margaery and stay anyway.

“Let's go to bed, lover,” Loras says, grabbing Renly's hand before he's too far away. Sansa thinks she sees Loras wink at his sister, but it's so brief she might have imagined it. Down the hall the door to Loras' room clicks loudly, leaving Sansa and Margaery alone, Sansa still half in her girlfriend's lap. Margaery leans forward to set her empty bottle on the table and takes Sansa's from her hand, placing it down as well. Sansa blinks and Margaery's hand is on her cheek, her mouth hot and insistent on Sansa's. The kiss lasts for a minute, deep and heady, and when Margaery breaks it both of them are breathless.

“Been waiting for them to sod off so I could do that,” Margaery gasps, still clutching at Sansa's face. “Will you stay tonight? You ran off so fast... I'm sorry for whatever I did that upset you.”

“It wasn't you,” Sansa replies, struggling. “I can't... I can't talk about it.” She's too drunk to talk about it, and if Margaery asks her again all of her secrets are going to come spilling off her lips. “Please.”

“Okay,” Margaery says, nodding. Her nose brushes Sansa's. “Okay. Can I kiss you again at least?” Sansa responds with action rather than words, tangling her fingers in Margaery's rich curls and pulling her forward into a kiss just as hard as the last. The taste of her is intoxicating, overwhelming. Her thumb slides along Sansa's jaw and her hand drops, pressing against Sansa's neck. The other slides up her leg, half on her hip and half on her arse, pulling her more securely into Margaery's lap. At the first brush of tongue against her lips Sansa moans, embarrassed by the sound, and thrilled when Margaery groans in reply and tugs her closer. Sansa feels Margaery shift and then she's being pressed back against the arm of the sofa again, the pillow digging into her back and Margaery's hips pressing between her legs. Too much, Sansa thinks as Margaery's lips move to her neck. Too much. Too fast. She can't-

It takes all her willpower to push Margaery away, holding her back with two hands planted firmly on her shoulders while she catches her breath. Her whole body is burning, screaming at her to let Margaery come back and let her keep making Sansa feel so wonderful, but her brain wins out. Margaery's face is flushed, her eyes black, her body quivering under Sansa's touch, but she closes her eyes and takes a calculated breath. When she opens them again she's calmer, and has a smile on her face. Sansa lets her elbows be bent, lets Margaery sink down on top of her again with a kiss as sweet as the curve of her lips.

“Sorry,” Margaery mutters, dotting butterfly kisses along Sansa's cheek. “Kissing you is addicting.” _So is kissing you_ , Sansa thinks, her heart pounding. “It's late. You should stay. I'll loan you clothes, and you can have pie for breakfast.” She won't freak out this time, Sansa tells herself, nodding and twisting her fingers through Margaery's hair. Margaery hums and presses her face against Sansa's shoulder. “That feels nice.”

“So do you,” Sansa says before she can stop herself. She blushes and Margaery chuckles and wiggles her hips. Sansa bites back a groan, sinking her teeth into her lip. Margaery rights herself, the absence of her body's pressure making Sansa ache to have it back, and holds out her hand. Sansa takes it, smiles when Margaery links their fingers, and lets herself be pulled up. She thinks about the other night, about the panic that gripped her chest. Margaery could destroy Sansa if she wanted to. _But she doesn't. She just wants to kiss you and hold your hand. She wants the things Joffrey never cared about. She's not Joffrey._

There's no panic that night. Sansa sleeps on the floor, comfortable in sweet smelling blankets and pillows, and dreams about Margaery's kisses.

 


	16. Chapter 16

The next morning is quiet. Margaery is the first awake, and it's the smell of food that makes Sansa poke her head out from under the blankets, a headache between her eyes but nothing that breakfast and coffee won't solve. She pads out into the kitchen to find Margaery reading through Sansa's poetry book, a pan on the stove and a pot of coffee brewing. The morning news is soft in the background.

“Good morning, sweetling,” Margaery says, looking up from the book. “Breakfast will be done soon.” Sansa gets herself a drink and sits next to Margaery at the table, absently watching the TV. After a minute she feels Margaery's fingers prying one of her hand away from her mug, and Sansa lets her lace their fingers. They're still sitting like that when the boys toddle out, shirtless and sleepy and hungover. Loras' hair is lopsided and Renly looks like he's ready to fall asleep on his feet. They get drinks of their own and Margaery finishes off breakfast, dishing out equal portions for all of them, with plenty leftover. Just like she promised. there's still pie for after, and this time Loras insists that Sansa takes the rest back with her. Margaery doesn't let her leave without a quick series of firm kisses while the boys aren't looking.

“Aren't you coming to class?” Sansa asks. Her lips tingle.

“Nope,” Margaery replies. “I feel like bunking off today.” She grins and winks. “You'll just have to suffer without me. Buuut...” She leans in for another kiss. “I can probably swing by if you want, take you out to dinner.”

“When are you going to let me pay?” Sansa mutters.

“Next time,” Margaery says. “Promise. Now get, before I decide to keep you here all to myself and ruin your perfect attendance.” Sansa thinks briefly that she doesn't care if her attendance is ruined, but she leaves anyway, before Margaery's smile tempts her into skipping her classes as well.

 

Margaery visits more often after that, and whenever she does they never get any work done. Their books lie forgotten on the table, a news report for Margaery's pleasure or research pulled up on one of their computers while Sansa's sat on Margaery's lap with her fingers pulling the tie out of her girlfriend's chestnut hair. It's perfectly normal to make out with your girlfriend all the time, Sansa reminds herself as Margaery's hands fit against the small of her back and press gently. Even if she does have a test to study for, and a paper to write, and discussion questions to fill out... Margaery kisses her jaw and Sansa forgets to think.

When her lips move down the fire in the pit of Sansa's stomach starts up again. Her head falls back, hair cascading over Margaery's hands. Margaery's lips find her throat, the hollow at the base of her neck, the line of her collarbone where it juts out from beneath her shirt. Sansa feels too warm, like she's standing in the hot summer sun without any sunblock. One of Margaery's hands moves, grazing around Sansa's side and moving up. It brushes her breast and Sansa bites back a sigh, her skin tingling. But Margaery's doesn't stop, fingertips dipping under the collar of Sansa's shirt and tugging gently, giving her lips more room to explore. Sansa can feel her hesitance, knows that Margaery will stop the second she says, but her body is begging her not to even as her mind screams at her that she needs to.

“Marg...” Sansa says, but it comes out more a sigh than a request, and Margaery's answering hum vibrates across her skin. Sansa feels teeth and her legs tense. It takes all the strength she has not to grind down into Margaery's lap. She clears her throat. “Marg, I've got coursework.” Margaery sighs, but with a soft kiss leans back and lets Sansa shift off her. Sansa reaches for her computer with trembling hands and Margaery shoves her fingers through her hair, thoroughly ruffling it. Her lips are pursed when she leans over to share Sansa's laptop screen, swollen and red from kissing. All Sansa wants to do is push her down and kiss her again.

 _She should be illegal,_ Sansa thinks when she kisses Margaery goodbye that night and one quick peck turns into two then three and before Sansa knows it she's backed Margaery against the door and is kissing her slow and deep, hands tangled up in Margaery's soft hair and her body warm and pliant, pressing into Sansa's. They part with breathless sighs before their hands can wander, flushed and trembling. There's no brown left in Margaery's eyes. She rushes out a goodbye and leaves a lingering kiss on Sansa's lips before leaving. Sansa grips the door handle hard to keep from rushing after her and dragging her back.

That night she tries to sleep but all she can think about is Margaery's black eyes, her lips hot on Sansa's skin, her hands pressing insistently against Sansa's back. The brush of her fingers against the side of her breast. The ache is too much. She drags her hand down her stomach. Release comes quick but still leaves Sansa breathless, a light moisture on her forehead, her fingers sticky and her thighs damp. On trembling legs she slips out of bed to clean up, heart still pounding, breath still short. Her sleep is heavy that night.

 

It leads to staring. A lot of it. Staring in class, staring while they walk around campus, and an extra large amount of staring when they elect to study in the library for once instead of holing up in Sansa's room. Margaery is the one who insists on it, complaining about how if professors are going to bully students into spending hundreds of pounds on textbooks then those books should contain every bit of information said students could possibly need for all of their assignments. Sansa pays more attention to how Margaery's mouth forms the words spilling out of it than she does the words themselves. Her stomach tightens.

She's staring so hard that she almost walks straight into the library door, only Margaery shouting her name at the last second stopping her short. A bewildered student stands before them, propping the library door half open. Margaery apologizes and grabs Sansa's elbow, leading her inside. She gives Sansa a curious look but doesn't say anything. They find a table near the politics section and Margaery sits Sansa down, surrounded by their bags, before taking her assignment page to the computers. Sansa cranes her neck to watch until Margaery disappears down the stacks. When she leans back far enough in her seat, perilously so, she can see the last few computers, but not the one that Margaery set herself up at. She huffs and lets her chair fall back to all four legs, elbow on the table and chin in her palm. She resumes her staring as soon as Margaery reenters her vision.

Margaery sits across from her, thumping down a stack of three heavy books that makes the pens she scattered across the table in her search for her paper rattle and roll. Margaery snatches one up, fishes a notebook from her bag and flips through pages and pages of neatly written notes until she comes to a blank one. With an irritated sigh, Margaery grabbed the top book on her pile and flipped to the appendix. Sansa knows she has her own work to do. She knows she should probably be doing it as well. Reading, no matter how much she loves it, takes up a surprising amount of time when it's for more than just pleasure. She'd rather watch Margaery.

Pretty, stunning Margaery, who gets this cute little line between her brow when she's concentrating. She worries the tip of her pen with white teeth, presses it against pursed lips. Sansa stares. She knows she's staring. She knows it's rude to stare. She knows it's even worse because her gaze is trailing down Margaery's neck to where her shirt dips, hanging loosely from Margaery's skin and in the shadow that it causes Sansa can just see the swell of her breast. She bites her own lip to try and ground herself. All it does it make her wish Margaery were biting it instead.

Margaery clears her throat. Sansa looks up to find her staring, brows raised. Sansa blushes. She knows full well what she was looking at, and Margaery knows as well. With a little smirk, Margaery playfully rolls her eyes and goes back to her work. Sansa keeps her eyes up this time, and watches how Margaery's brows twitch as she reads, how her eyelashes flutter and hide the honey brown of her irises from view. The second time Margaery looks up there's confusion in those eyes and a little pout to her lips. Sansa quickly looks away and yanks a book out of her bag, spreading it open on the table. Margaery goes back to her work.

Sansa pretends to read, then tries, but she can't stop looking up. It's not fair that Margaery can look so effortlessly beautiful when she's working on homework. It shouldn't be sexy, but it is. The way Margaery chews on her pen, the way she keeps pushing errant curls out of her face. Sansa keeps her head dipped, looking up through her lashes. It doesn't take long for Margaery to grow tired of her hair and with a few quick strokes of her hand she's swept it all into a pile on top of her head, securing it with pins pulled from her pocket, exposing the long, slender length of her neck. Sansa's mouth goes dry.

This time when Margaery looks up, there's a hint of annoyance in her eyes. “You know,” she says, “it's very difficult to work when you keep looking at me like that.”

“Sorry,” Sansa mumbles, ducking her head again. Margaery goes back to her work. For a while Sansa doesn't look. She focuses on her book, borrowing one of Margaery's pens to make notes in the margins. It works for a little while, but the distraction, such as it is, doesn't last forever. It's funny, Sansa thinks, how she thinks of her work as the distraction instead of the girl sitting across from her. A few months before it would have been the other way around. If it was any other girl it would have been the other way around. But, as Sansa is constantly reminding herself, Margaery Tyrell isn't any other girl.

She tries to keep her staring subtle. Margaery doesn't look up again until Sansa's stomach is starting to grumble loudly. Sansa blushes, but all Margaery does it laugh sweetly and shut her books.

“Yeah, I'm getting hungry, too. Fancy some sandwiches?”

“ _Please_ ,” Sansa replies, quickly stuffing her books away. Margaery gathers up her own and swings her bag over her shoulder. Sansa follows after her, hovering just behind her shoulder as they wait in the short line to check out her books. It gives Sansa more opportunity to watch. She wonders if there's any angle that Margaery isn't beautiful from. Sansa looks away. Looking at the shell of Margaery's ear makes Sansa want to know how it would feel under her teeth, and those aren't thoughts she wants to be having in Margaery's presence, let alone in a library. It feels like sacrilege.

They get sandwiches from the cafe on campus. They're not the best things in the world, but it's good enough, and even though Margaery at least could afford something nicer, neither of them wants to navigate the dinner rush. Sansa does beg a pack of lemon cakes from her girlfriend with pouts and puppy dog eyes until Margaery's laughing and giving in with a shake of her head and a roll of her eyes. Sansa starts eating them before the go back outside to sit under their tree on the green. The heat isn't as stifling as it has been, the only real sign that winter is coming. When Sansa mentions it Margaery makes a joke about the Stark words finally coming to fruition. Sansa tells her it's always winter in the north.

“Are you going to go up over the break?” Margaery asks. Sansa stops with her teeth sunk into half a lemon cake. She'd forgotten the midterm break was coming. She'd forgotten that after their exams she'll have a whole new set of courses with all new teachers and new classmates. She'd forgotten that she'll have almost a month back home with her family before the new term starts. Her heart swells with happiness.

“Are you going to go back to Highgarden?” she asks.

Margaery shrugs. “I don't know. Loras is going to Essos with Renly which gives me the flat to myself for a month, but I'm sure Grandmother wants to see me.” There's a fondness underneath the irritation in Margaery's tone that speaks volumes of her relationship with her family. “I'll decide when it's closer, I suppose. I'm more worried about passing my exams than I am about where I'm going to spend my holiday.”

“You'll do fine,” Sansa replies automatically. Margaery grins at her and plucks the remaining half of Sansa's lemon cake out of her hand, popping it into her mouth. Sansa blushes and doesn't know why. She leans over and kisses the crumbs off Margaery's lips to hide it. She wants to linger, to deepen it, to see if Margaery's tongue tastes like tart like lemons or just like herself, but there's people around and none of them are looking now but if Sansa starts a full on make out session beneath a tree they're going to start. So she pulls away and licks her own lips and smiles back at her girlfriend.

 

The idea comes to her when she's back in her room, finally studying for her exams now that she's free of Margaery's irresistible charms; at least directly. Apparently nothing can stop her from thinking of her lover, especially her being all alone in her flat. The mid term break isn't a huge thing, but the passing from one year into the next is usually something to be celebrated. Margaery might be content to be free of her family for a month, but that doesn't mean that she can't be plagued by someone else's. Besides, she wants to visit the North, doesn't she?

Sansa forgets about her work (again) and writes out a short, not quite pleading email to her parents. She knows what the answer will be, at least she thinks she does, but it never hurts to ask, rather than just show up at the front door of their estate with a complete stranger in tow. The reply doesn't take long, and it makes Sansa's face light up. She hopes Margaery will be just as happy to hear the answer.


	17. Chapter 17

Her precious time with Margaery is cut short when exams are suddenly upon them and Sansa finds herself scrambling to study for a semester she only half remembers. The good thing about it, at least, is that study group is back up. Sort of. Alla still doesn't want to have anything to do with her, but Elinor sends a text and Sansa is happy to meet with her in the library. She expects everything to be awkward, but Elinor smiles and hugs her like nothing ever happened and quizzes Sansa on everything she knows and quite a few things she doesn't. While Sansa is looking through her bag for the next book she needs, the table strewn with notebooks and papers and other texts, Elinor stares at her. Sansa tries to ignore it, but finally the weight of her gaze is too much and she can't help but look up.

“What?” Sansa asks.

Elinor shrugs. “Just glad you decided to come. I'm sorry for how I acted before.”

“You had every right,” Sansa says quickly. “I did miss you, though.”

“Really?” Elinor asks, her face lighting up. For a second Sansa fears that she's just dug Elinor's crush out of the dirt, but there's nothing obviously romantic she can see in Elinor's expression.

“Yeah,” Sansa replies. “Does this mean we're friends again?” Elinor's answering laugh is so loud that they receive several dirty looks from the students around them. Elinor claps her hand over her mouth to muffle the sound until she catches her breath and grins broadly at Sansa in a way that reminds her of Margaery. Sometimes she forgets they're related.

“Yeah,” Elinor replies. “Friends.” She leans across the table, biting her lip, her gaze turning conspiratorial. “I actually was hoping I'd get the chance to tell you about this girl I met...”

Sansa feels lighter when she leaves. It would be nice if she could shake off Alla's ire, but that at least she knows is Alla's problem, and not hers. She can only hope that at some point someone manages to talk some sense into the other Tyrell cousin. For now, her relationship with Elinor has been restored, and Sansa feels at least somewhat confident about passing her exams. She texts Margaery, just to check, but the lack of expedient reply tells Sansa that her girlfriend has got her nose buried in one of her frustratingly obtuse politics texts with her phone either off or on silent.

She gives up expecting a reply after an hour has passed and settled down to cover the material her and Elinor never got to. It's probably better if she waits to ask Margaery to go north with her anyway, she thinks, chewing absently on a lemon cake as she reviews the required poems. They both have enough on their minds without adding the pressure of an answer on top of it. Sansa doesn't nag and spends her time preparing as best she can. By the time she's handed in her last assignments and her exams are suddenly in front of her rather than on the horizon, she's sure she'll at least get passing marks if nothing else.

Her and Margaery don't speak aside from checking to make sure that neither of them has died. Margaery doesn't even ask for help with poetry. Sansa knows they could revise together for Melisandre's class, but study sessions between them lately have been less about school and more about seeing how long they can kiss before the need to breathe becomes a pressing issue. Normally it's one that Sansa would happily face, but for once her grades are more important than Margaery's lips, no matter how nice they are. The thought distracts her from her work for several minutes until her book falls off her lap and startles her back into the present. There'll be plenty of time for kissing Margaery _after_ she's done selling her soul for good grades.

She doesn't know why professors are determined to have all of their tests bunched together, but Sansa thinks it's the stupidest idea ever. How can they expect students to do well in anything when they have five or six or even seven large, time consuming, world ending tests all within the span of a week? She's exhausted, even though she's made a point of going to bed early (except on those nights when she spends too much time thinking about Margaery and her body demands satisfaction that keeps her up later than she initially intended to be awake) and all the coffee she's been drinking to try and stay awake is doing its best to give her a permanent case of the jitters.

 

It's with a great feeling of relief and a slight hesitance that Sansa leaves from her last exam with her phone in her hand and a text to Margaery in the process of being composed. It's cooler out today, though not anywhere near as cold as home, but the winds are coming down from the north and bringing the hint of Winterfell's chill with it. It makes Sansa eager to go home. Hopefully with her girlfriend on her arm. Margaery will like the North, she thinks, settling under their tree on the green to wait for Margaery to meet her. She'll need to buy some warmer clothes, but money has always been less of an obstacle for the Tyrells than for the Starks. There isn't much left from the old days, between the new city being built and rebuilt over the years and the Starks moving from the castle into an estate home, but the ruins still stand, strong and proud even after centuries. And Sansa is allowed to take Margaery to all the places the tourists aren't allowed to go. Owning a place has its benefits.

Margaery collapses in a heap with a loud sigh next to her ten minutes later, a giant cup of coffee in her hand that's strong enough for Sansa to smell it through the plastic lid. After a long gulp of it she leans against Sansa's shoulder, smelling of roses and shampoo. Sansa lets Margaery lace their fingers together.

“So,” Margaery says, balancing her coffee on her thigh, “your text said you have something important to ask me. Should I be worried?” Her voice is teasing, but Sansa squeezes her hand anyway. She never wants to give Margaery a reason to worry.

“Well, I'm going to go home for the break and I thought...” Sansa bites her lip, feeling her face heat. “I thought maybe you'd like to come with me?”

“Sure,” Margarey replies, and it takes Sansa a few seconds to realize what she said. She had expected hesitance, but when she looks over Margaery is smiling, eyes twinkling happily. “When do we leave?”

Sansa blinks. “Uh, I was planning to go up at the end of the week.”

“I'll buy our tickets,” Margaery says casually, raising her cup to her lips.

“You don't have to-”

“Oh, please,” Margaery interrupts with a grin. “It's not a problem. Just tell me when and where.” She glances down at her clothes, the thin shirt and shorts that's the only sensible thing to wear in the southern heat. “I suppose I need a wardrobe change as well. Do you have any more exams today?” Sansa shakes her head. “Good. Time for a shopping date, then.” Sansa laughs despite herself. Margaery makes it sound like Sansa has no choice, but she knows that's not the case. Margaery finishes her coffee and pulls Sansa to her feet, linking their arms.

It turns out that Margaery really only brought Sansa along for advice, because she keeps underestimating just how cold it is at Winterfell, even in the summer. Margaery sighs as she discards another dress after Sansa shakes her head and says she'll freeze if she wears that. She's been given cart duty, pushing around a trolley they don't really need considering Margaery has only settled on two pairs of jeans and one sweater. She'll need more than that if they're going to be there for a month.

“I can't imagine what it's like in winter,” Margaery comments as she holds another top up for Sansa's consideration. Sansa reaches out to feel the fabric before nodding. Margaery refolds it with practised ease and drops it in the cart.

“I've only seen one,” Sansa says, following after her girlfriend. “It was... absolutely frigid.”

“Good thing I'll have you to keep me warm, then,” Margaery replies, smirking and crooking an eyebrow suggestively. Sansa smiles back, but her stomach lurches sickeningly. Her parents might be fine with her _friend_ coming to visit, but she hasn't said anything to them about liking any girls at all, let alone about Margaery and her being anything more than just uni buddies. Margaery doesn't say anything else. Sansa follows after her, giving her yes or no to each item of clothing that Margaery holds up until they both feel that she has enough to last her in the harsh north. She'll miss Margaery's legs in those shorts, though, Sansa thinks, watching the clothes disappear into bags and the total rack up and up. She blanches at the final price, but Margaery swipes her card without a second glance and offloads half of the bags into Sansa's arms.

Sansa has coffee with Elinor once before they leave, thankfully free of whatever awkward tension from their almost romantic relationship that still remained. Sansa's hesitant to mention about Margaery going home with her, not wanting to poke at any recent wounds, but Elinor just sighs wistfully and wishes she could go visit the north.

“Someone has to visit Grandmother if Margaery is absconding with a northerner,” she says with an almost wicked smile. Sansa blushes at the tease and hides her face behind her coffee cup. “Besides, it's too cold for me. I'm happy to stay in the sun, thank you very much.”

“It's sunny at Winterfell,” Sansa replies.

Elinor laughs. “Yeah, but I don't fancy freezing my tits off without even getting a tan out of it.” She reaches across the table and squeezes Sansa's hand. “Don't be a stranger, though. I want pictures, especially of those ruins. Surprised they're still standing after all this time.” Sansa grins and chuckles and promises that she'll take plenty of pretty snapshots of snow. Her chest feels light when they leave, Elinor splitting away from her with light kisses to both her cheeks and a cheery wave. Sansa heads back to campus and up to her room to pack with a smile on her face, her anxiety about taking Margaery home to meet her parents momentarily overridden by her happiness to have her friend back.

 

An hour before their train is due to leave, Margaery shows up at her door with a smile and helps Sansa to carry her suitcase and shoulder bag down to the elevator and out of the building. They exchange pleasantries along the way, and Margaery's obvious excitement puts Sansa at ease. Loras is waiting in the car for them, and smiles and waves happily when he spots Sansa, getting out to help the two of them squish Sansa's luggage into the back of the car with Margaery's, and then into the back seat next to Sansa when there's no more room. Anticipation wells in Sansa's chest. After so long away (it feels like it's been a lifetime rather than a handful of months) she's delighted to be going home, even if under her happiness there's a layer of nervousness.

Sansa settles back and listens to the music and the chatter of the Tyrell siblings, occasionally popping into the conversation, but mostly relaxing and letting Margaery and her brother talk. Loras expertly navigates the traffic of King's Landing and pulls them up at the drop off in front of the train station twenty minutes after they leave KLU's campus. He hauls their bags out of the car for them then wraps his sister up in a large, tight hug that looks like it's about ready to snap Margaery's spine in half. Sansa looks away, embarrassed at watching such a passionate display of family affection, only to jump in surprise when she finds herself treated to the same tight embrace. Loras' arms squeeze the air out of her lungs.

“Take care of my baby sister up there in the wild north, Sansa,” he says into her ear before pulling away. There's a joke in his voice, but real concern beneath it. Sansa holds his gaze and nods. Loras steps back. “Well, I've gotta go find Renly to get ready for our own honeymoon. Don't have too much fun, kids.” He winks and clicks his tongue and laughs when Sansa and his sister both blush. The two of them watch him drive off and wave, waiting until the car has gone around the corner and out of sight before gathering up their things and heading into the station. Sansa supports Margaery's bag while Margaery digs their tickets out of her purse and slips them into her pocket instead, and together the two of them navigate the busy building and manage to find a partly empty bench on their platform to squeeze themselves on while they wait for their train.

 

Settled in their seats with almost enough leg room for Sansa to stretch her legs out, Sansa sends a text to her parents letting them know her and Margaery are en route, then tucks her phone back into her pocket. Margaery reaches for one of her hands when their free and holds it loosely. The train jerks into motion. For a while neither of them talk. Sansa leans her head against the window and watches the city and its suburbs rush past in a blur of colour, slowing into focus when the train brakes at each stop on its route until there's nothing but open countryside, fields and mountains. Sansa yawns and closes her eyes, letting the soft rumble of the train and the warmth of Margaery's hand in hers lull her into relaxation. She thinks she dozes off for half an hour or so. Margaery's palm is sweaty. Sansa squeezes her fingers and when she opens her eyes Margaery graces her with a small smile. There's uneasiness hiding behind its crooked tilt and deep in the chocolate of her eyes. Sansa doesn't mention it, or that it matches the slight queasiness that slowly grows in Sansa's stomach with every passing mile.

“Sansa,” Margaery says softly when they've left the fields of the south far behind on the other side of The Trident and are steadily delving further and further into the mountains and hills and valleys of The Vale and The Neck. “Does your family know about...?” Sansa waits but she doesn't finish her question. She doesn't have to. Sansa already knows what she's asking. She swallows over the sudden lump in her throat and feels her fingers start to tremble inside Margaery's light grip.

“No,” Sansa says softly. She can just hear Margaery's answering inhale over the noise of the train. Margaery twists her hand free from Sansa's fingers and stands, stretching with feigned casualness and reaching up to the shelf above them for her travel bag. Sansa watches her with a racing heart and a twisting gut.

“I'll be right back,” Margaery says, pulling a bundle of clothes out of her bag. Sansa notices then the goosebumps on her leg. She's so used to the cold that she hadn't been aware of the change in temperature, even though she can feel the soft brush of heat from the vent above her head on her skin. Margaery smiles, but it's not as reassuring as Sansa thinks she means for it to be. Margaery leaves her bag open and strides down the corridor to the bathroom at the end of the car. Sansa watches the lock go from green to red and waits. When Margaery comes back out in jeans and a sweater with a hoodie open over it, she looks more relaxed and her grin after she's shoved her old clothes back into her bag, put it on the shelf again and reclaimed her seat sends a spike of warmth through Sansa's stomach. She licks her lips and looks away to keep from leaning over and kissing Margaery. They stop holding hands when they're half an hour from their destination.

 


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By popular demand: a few chapters from Margaery's PoV. :D

It's all an act. Margaery wishes Sansa would have told her that her family assumed they were only friends before she agreed to spend a month in the freezing North with a family she only had passing knowledge of. So she fakes a confidence she doesn't feel. She's heard that Ned Stark is a kind, honourable man, but such traits quickly deteriorate as far as family is concerned, and while the Starks and the Tyrells once could have been great friends, and while Stark gets along well enough with Margaery's father, Margaery has no interest in counting her chickens before they've hatched. So when Sansa lets go of her hand all she does is smile in what she hopes is an understanding way (because she _does_ understand, she's just used to not having to worry about it) and doesn't try to reach for it again.

Sansa starts to fidget at the twenty minute mark. At the fifteen her knee is jogging constantly. At ten Margaery stands up and gets their bags down to minimize the time it takes to get off the train. At five Sansa's phone rings and Margaery can see the excitement and nervousness on her face as she speaks to whoever is on the other end. The voice Margaery can hear sounds male. Her father, perhaps. Or a brother. She has several. Margaery holds in a sigh. Without them knowing her and Sansa are an item, she'll likely have to deal with the particular brand of awkward courting that only young adult men are capable of.

And then the train is slowing down with the gentle screech of brakes, the automated voice is announcing their arrival at Winterfell, and Sansa is clutching at Margaery's hand like it's a lifeline until the train stops and passengers are allowed to disembark. Despite having the outer seat, Margaery lets Sansa go first, lagging behind with their luggage. There's not a whole lot, but it's enough that Margaery can pretend to struggle with it and give Sansa private time with her family. Someone behind her helps her get the bags off the steps and onto the platform and Margaery hauls them out of the way of traffic, following Sansa's bright red hair to where a large cluster of eager people are waiting. They engulf Sansa as soon as she's close enough, and Margaery stands off to the side with their bags, watching.

It's nice to see Sansa so happy for once. Margaery, while curious, hates to push, but she reads Sansa better than Sansa is aware, and Margaery knows she's hiding something. Something big. Maragery's pleased to see that it doesn't appear to be anything with her (immediate) family. Over the weeks she's worn her mind to bits wondering what made Sansa act so shy and insecure. She's a beautiful, intelligent, well-off girl in her early twenties. She should be looking at the world like it's her to conquer. Instead she looks at it like it's a beast to be feared, to be fended off with high walls and strong steel, like a queen protecting her castle from a mighty army. Margaery wants to know what, or who, has hurt her so, has made her so distrustful of everything, but she dare not ask and ruin the tender roots of their new relationship.

At the sound of her name, Margaery's attention snaps back to the Stark clan. They're all staring at her, the older boys with the normal wide-eyed, jaw open and drooling expression that Margaery's grown used to seeing on lads, and the younger with shy wonder. The other girl, Arya, Margaery remembers, is sizing her up, arms crossed over her chest, short hair sticking up wildly. And then there's Sansa's parents, Ned and Catelyn, smiling at Margaery like she's a daughter of their own as well.

“Sansa's told us quite a lot about you,” Catelyn says, and to her alarm Margaery feels herself blushing. The older boys, Robb and Jon, rush forward to take the bags from her, both trying to act more the gentleman and catch her attention. She could almost laugh at them, if she wasn't intent on making as good a first impression as she possibly could. The Starks might not know the true extent of her and Sansa's relationship, but that didn't mean that Margaery didn't want them to think the best of her when the reality of the situation came to light. If it came to light.

Soon enough, Margaery is distracted by the sights of the North. It's as cold as Sansa promised, though it doesn't seem to bother her girlfriend or her family in the slightest. In fact, Margaery is the only one hunching down in her sweatshirt with the hood pulled over her head, sitting as close to Sansa as she dares in the back of Ned Stark's sleek black car, watching the town blur past them. The North is far more rugged than the sleek sophistication Margaery has spent her life surrounded by. The buildings are rough grey stone and red brick, the streets narrow.

And then they're out into the country, going further north. There's still snow on tree branches, clinging to the green pine. The road widens a bit, and the car zips down. There's nothing but fields and forests. Margaery feels like a little girl, her nose almost pressed to the glass of the window, the chatter of the Stark family filling her ears. She's mostly left to enjoy the view in peace, answering the occasional question, but most of the clan wants to know all about what Sansa's been doing, and for once Sansa seems open and happy and more than willing to tell of her adventures.

They drive by the ruins of the once great keep of Winterfell, the seat of the North, where generations of Starks rules. Even crumbling and rotting and forgotten it's a wonder to look at.

“I'll take you,” Sansa says into her ear. Their thighs are touching, but Margaery is being careful to let Sansa initiate all contact. She has no idea what is and isn't appropriate in front of the rest of the family. “I can get you into places the public can't go. To see the collections that haven't been readied yet. And there's tunnels and all sorts.”

“It sounds wonderful,” Margaery says back with a smile. She wants to take Sansa's hand and kiss it, but she won't. Not until she's sure there alone. And maybe not even then. Only if Sansa lets her. The centre of Margaery's palm starts to sting. She rubs it against her knee until the sensation fades to a barely noticeable if very annoying throb beneath her skin. _You're better than this,_ she tells herself, watching the ruins of the castle dwindle in the distance. The throb fades, but Margaery can still feel a phantom pain.

 

The manor house is nothing Margaery hasn't seen before. She might still live in Highgarden's old castle, its grounds and buildings carefully maintained by generations of Tyrells over the centuries, but her family has vacation homes as large as the Stark's new estate, and it brings a bit of comfort to Margaery's nervous stomach. She lingers over the cars in the garage, running her fingers along fine curves and brilliant paint, then follows the clan into the house proper. In here, at least, it feels more like home. There's still some old world charm to it, the décor earthy and dark, but everything is posh and nice and it makes Margaery's heart sing to see Sansa look so comfortable.

“C'mon,” Sansa says with a brilliant smile. “I'll give you the tour.”

“I want to give her the tour!” one of the boys objects from behind them.

“No, I do!” shouts the other. Margaery doesn't know their voices yet. Sansa glares at them both and firmly takes Margaery's hand. A warmth sparks through Margaery's hand.

“You can take our bags up,” Sansa says and pulls Margaery giggling from the room as her brothers shout in protest. She hears Ned's rich laugh drowning out all other noise, and then Sansa pulls them into another room and the tour begins. There's the kitchen of course, still full of voices, and a main entry hall, a study, a parlour. Upstairs is another study, a few spare rooms, bathrooms, and the final floor is where the Starks make their bed. Sansa shows Margaery each member of her family's rooms, but they don't linger long in any (Ned and Catelyn's is large and neat and very private, Jon's is messy and full of records, Robb's of books, and Arya's looks like a bomb has gone off in it).

Sansa's has the look of a student who's gone away to school. Margaery's own doesn't look much different. It's been kept neat, and some of Sansa's things are still there, but it has the distinct feeling of being half lived in. Sansa leads her in and shuts the door and then they're alone. Still holding hands. Margaery looks at them, then pretends to be interested in her surroundings (not that she isn't, but she's a fast observer and she doubts there's much more she needs to see). Sansa clears her throat softly.

“I think Mum's set up one of the guest rooms downstairs for you,” she says. She's playing with Margaery's fingers, running the pads of her own along their slender lengths and rolling them against Margaery's knuckles. Margaery thought by now things like this would stop making her heart race like she's just jogged the whole of King's Landing, but all it takes is a look to set her blood racing. “They're all pretty nice, so... I dunno what's planned for dinner. We're probably going out. And watch out for Robb and Jon, I've seen how they've been looking at you and mmph-!”

Margaery sighs against Sansa's lips, and deepens the kiss when Sansa's shock subsides and her body relaxes. It doesn't last long, but it's enough to subdue the desire that's been building up in the pit of Margaery's stomach.

“I don't care how they look at me,” Margaery whispers, “but I'll be careful.” She squeezes Sansa's hand. “Shame that we can't share a room.”

“I don't think-” Sansa starts, and she's blushing again, one of the many things about Sansa that Margaery finds absolutely endearing, including how she rambles and how she plays with her hair and how she gets nervous and apologizes for absolutely everything. Margaery's fully aware of how smitten she is, and has been since she first set sight on Sansa, since she went home that night and told Loras and he teased her to pieces about it.

“I know,” Margaery says. “It's probably better that we don't. Now we should probably go back before they send a search party to look for us.” Sansa nods and starts out, but Margaery doesn't miss the hesitance in her gait and how she touches her fingertips to her lips without seeming to realize she's doing either.

But there was no sign of the Stark clan when they returned downstairs. Sansa searched absently for her family, but after a minute or so gave up with a shrug and took Margaery's hand again, leading her through the kitchen and out the back onto a wide porch that looked out over a large, fenced in patch of green further guarded by rank upon rank of tall, sombre trees. Margaery shivered in the chilly air, envious of the ease with which Sansa bore the temperature. She could almost believe Sansa had ice in her veins instead of blood had she not known her girlfriend as well as she did.

“I could get lost in the woods,” Margaery says, alarmed by the wistful quality of her voice. She clears her throat. “I mean-”

“People have,” Sansa says. “On purpose, I think. And there's wolves.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, but... we're Starks.” There's a weight to the words that Margaery doesn't understand. She leans against the porch railing and stares into the forest, imagining a pack of legendary direwolves roaming its depths. A chill runs down her spine, but it's nothing to do with the cold air. “I know the woods like the back of my hand,” Sansa says. There's the promise of exploration and adventure in her voice. Margaery stands closer, pretending to seek Sansa's body heat rather than the comfort of her company. For a while they stand in silence, the quiet of a Northern fall surrounding them before Sansa leads them back inside.

Margaery is thankful for all the formal dinners she's sat through when the Stark clan gathers for their evening meal, and even more so for her grandmother's influence that left her with the skills to ward off the older Stark mens' advancements without stepping on anyone's toes. Margaery practices her best flattery and is grateful for the large dining table that lets her hide her hand on Sansa's knee. The contact soothes the bouncing of Sansa's foot against the ground, an outward indication of her nerves. Margaery doesn't blame her. She feels the same, and the boys' flirting does nothing to help. Sansa has never given any indication of having a jealous personality, but it can't be easy for her to have to pretend not to be affected by her brothers' obvious comments. Margaery's so used to the attention (male and female both) that she barely bats an eye, but she hopes it won't take the entire month for them to catch on that she's not interested.

Arya is still judging her silently, asking questions with a sharp tone that Margaery recognizes well. She thinks of all the Starks, Arya's approval is going to be the hardest to win. Ned Stark is more interested in how Margaery's family is doing and Catelyn in her schooling. Bran tries to act impressive. Margarey is careful not to comment on his legs. Rickon is too shy to say anything.

She doesn't lift her hand from Sansa's leg.

After the meal, Margaery is invited down to the basement turned rec room. As soon as the door opens there's a chorous of excited barks from the downstairs, and Sansa excitedly hurries down. Margaery follows, arriving at the bottom of the stairs in time to see Sansa be mauled by no less than three very large dogs, with three more sniffing around her.

“Meet the rest of the Starks,” Robb says from behind her. “We kept them down here to avoid _you_ being the one getting mauled when you walked in the door. The fact they've kept quiet until now probably means they were outside.” He points to the back of the room. “Leads right out into the trees.”

“Aren't you afraid they'll run away?” Margaery asks. The dogs disperse, giving Margaery curious sniffs. One stays by Sansa's side

“No,” Robb continues, ruffling the scruff of the largest of the dogs. “They always come back.” The basement is complete with a billards table and comfortable couches and chairs, set around a large TV and larger speakers. It's nothing short of what Margaery's own home looks like, but she's still impressed. It's a testament to Ned and Catelyn that their children haven't turned out completely spoiled.

Bran soon joins them via a lift, and Rickon thumps down the stairs two at a time. Soon the room is full of the noise of teenagers and 20 somethings and barking dogs. Robb and Jon crack open beers and ciders. Margaery accepts one and smiles at Sansa as she pops the top with a crisp hiss, waggling her brows. Sansa rolls her eyes in reply, but she's grinning and obviously happy to be home. Then the music starts and Robb invites her to a game of pool.

“Twenty quid says Jon and I beat you and Sansa,” he says.

“I'll take that bet,” Margaery replies, giving her cider a swig. It runs cool and smooth down her throat.

Sansa turns out to be absolutely dreadful at pool. Thankfully, Margaery's own brothers had seen fit to give her a proper education and her skill makes up for Sansa's lack thereof. And it keeps Jon and Robb from having an excuse to stand behind her and help her line up a shot. Still, it's essentially two against one and a poor shot from Sansa pockets the 8-ball too early and costs them the game. The boys cheer and drink and Arya (who sneaked down during the game to play Xbox with Bran) yells at them to shut up. Sansa flashes Margaery an apologetic look, which Margaery meets with a smile that makes Sansa blush and look away. Margaery hands over the prize money she owes with a feeling of smug satisfation.

And so goes the rest of the night. Rickon is called up to bed first, and then Robb takes Bran up when it's just past midnight. An hour later, tipsy on cider, Sansa starts to yawn. Sitting close, as she has all night, it's easy for Margaery to put a hand on Sansa's knee and whisper, “bed?” into her ear. Sansa nods and leaves her two remaining siblings to their games. In the dark of the house, Margaery holds tight to Sansa's hand, trusting her girlfriend to guide her through the halls. Margaery's room is on the floor beneath Sansa's. She briefly entertains the idea of sleeping in Sansa's (they _are_ “friends” after all), but ultimately dismisses it. She does, however, pull Sansa into the empty bedroom and, shielded by the dark and the quiet, does what she's been yearning to do the entire day.

Sansa's lips are silk against hers. Her tongue tastes like cider. Her cheeks are flushed and warm under Margaery's palms. She meant for it to be a goodnight kiss, but her body demands more, and her mind is too drunk to refuse. She presses the length of her body against Sansa's and is rewarded with a gasp. Her hands tangle in her girlfriend's hair until Sansa pulls away, inhaling sharply. She squeezes Margaery's hips.

“I should go,” she mumbles. _No,_ Margaery wants to say. _Stay. Kiss me. Touch me._ But she sighs and nods, running her hands down Sansa's arms. “I'll see you in the morning.” Sansa kisses the corner of her mouth, lingers, then squeezes Margaery's fingers and leaves. Margaery waits until her steps have faded before closing the door.

 

Margaery has always prided herself on her control, but her body aches, and maybe it's the alcohol that makes her slide a hand down her stomach. It's not the first time she's touched herself thinking of Sansa. The Stark girl sticks in her mind regardless of where she is, and each touch and kiss and look that they share only makes Margaery want her more. But there's something holding Sansa back, despite how steamy their kisses can become, and Margaery is patient. For now, her imagination is enough, and a few minutes later she comes with a soft moan. Sated, she rolls over and burrows into unfamiliar blankets and dreams about running with Sansa through the woods.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it took so long for this update to happen. Things were crazy at work with the holiday season and I as honestly too tired to do anything but come home and read or watch TV and I was falling asleep before 10 most nights. You've all been super patient and I'm really grateful for that, so thanks. :) Hopefully things will even out some now.


	19. Chapter 19

Margaery is woken by a gentle knock on her door. The quiet is unfamiliar. She's used to Loras' noise, or his and Renly's voices drifting through the wall. She's used to news in the morning and Loras loudly pounding on her door to wake her up for breakfast. She stretches and rubs at her eyes. There's another knock, and then Sansa's voice softly calling her name. Margaery's heart skips. She untangles herself from the blankets, consciously wipes her hand off on her thigh even though her fingers are long dry, and opens the door.

Sansa is dressed for a day out, bundled up in warm clothes with her coat over her shoulder and a hat over her hair. She smiles sleepily at Margaery and slips into the room. Margaery closes the door, yawns, and stretches.

“So...” Sansa starts, twisting her hair around her fingers, “I thought maybe you'd want to go to the ruins. Just the two of us.”

“Like on a date?” Margaery asks, smirking.

Sansa blushes. “Yeah, like on a date. There's probably some family thing planned for the afternoon since I'm home and you're here. If you don't want to that's fine, I mean it just popped into my head last night but I forgot to ask and-”

Margaery quiets her with a kiss. If Sansa minds her morning breath she doesn't say. For her part, Sansa tastes like toothpaste, cool and fresh. She smiles and rubs Sansa's cheek with her thumb. Sansa blinks down at her, looking slightly dazed. Margaery holds back a satisfied laugh.

“I'd love to,” she says.

“Right,” Sansa replies. Margaery can see her swallow. “Well, dress warm. It's really cold out.”

“Yes, Mum,” Margaery says with an eyeroll and a smile is her reward.

“I'll meet you downstairs,” Sansa says, squeezing her hand. She shuts the door softly behind her. Margaery licks her lips, still tasting Sansa, and wrenches her bag up onto the bed. She layers up, a t-shirt under a sweater under a coat and stuff gloves into the pockets. A pair of thick socks and jeans and boots later and Margaery thinks she's as good as she's going to get. She can always cuddle up to Sansa if she gets cold, she thinks with a smile, jamming a beanie over her hair and zipping her bag back up. It might be cold and it might be earlier than she's used to being awake, the sun just barely providing enough light for Margaery to see the woods stretching back outside her window, grey and black tree shaped blurs tipped with gold as the sun touches the highest branches.

She can smell coffee when she quietly makes her way down to the kitchen. Sansa is sat at the island, a steaming mug between her hands and another next to them, clearly meant for Margaery. There's toast on a small plate in the middle of the counter, with butter and jam next to it. Margaery takes the empty seat at Sansa's side and inhales her coffee, groaning. Sansa is smiling when Margaery glances at her out of the corner of her eye. In silence they drink and eat, and Sansa clears their dishes before plucking a set of keys off the row of hooks by the door to the garage.

It's chilly, even in the garage. Margaery sticks her arms under her armpits and follows Sansa down the row of cars to the one that matches the keys in Sansa's hand. The doors unlock with a soft click and they both get in. A press of a button on the visor opens the garage door. Sansa cranks up the heat and Margaery adjusts the vents until there's cool but swiftly warming air blowing on her face and hands.

By the time they've left the Stark manor behind, Margaery has stopped shivering. She lays her hand over Sansa's where it rests on the gear stick. If she was warmer she would pull off her gloves, but for now it's enough to just to touch, even through layers of fabric. The music is soft, the acoustic folk that Margaery knows Sansa likes to listen to. Margaery doesn't presume to change it. It fits the world around them, muted greys and greens, the sky slowly going from orange and grey to pink and purple and blue.

 

The keep and grounds of Winterfell's ancient seat of power are still owned by the Starks, but now are a historical park and landmark. Margaery doesn't see any sign of a fence, but she's sure there must be one hidden in the thick trees. A parking lot dominates the empty space at the base of the hill where the ruins of the castle stand.

“The park doesn't open for hours yet,” Sansa explains, pulling into a spot close to the paved path leading up to the gates, “but I have keys. I thought it'd be easier for both of us if we explored without having to deal with the staff and the tourists.”

They step out into the cold. Margaery zips up her coat and stuffs her hands into her pockets, staring up at the castle. It had been destroyed during the War of the Five Kings, she knows that much, rebuilt by Sansa's ancestors, but as time and technology advanced, it was more prudent for the place to be one of preservation rather than habitation. The Starks moved into their manor, and the castle and grounds were prepared for the public. Even in ruins, the keep is an imposing structure. Margaery feels eyes on her as her and Sansa trudge up to the front gate. Sansa opens a smaller door in the great wooden gates and lets them inside. Margaery rolls her shoulder blades as they pass under the portcullis, rusted with time.

The courtyard looks far from what it must have when the keep was used, neat paths in place instead of mud churned by hundreds of human and animal feet. Some of the structures have clearly been rebuilt, others were still in tact. Signs dot the land. Sansa points Margaery to where a tour would start, then lets her go at her own pace. As the sun grows higher and begins to warm the land, Margaery holds out her hand and gives Sansa a questioning look. Sansa smiles and tightly links their fingers. The lingering tension that had been strung along Margaery's bones on the estate dissipates. Here they are alone. In a manner of speaking.

“I feel it, too,” Sansa says softly. It's so quiet they could whisper and hear each other from either side of the courtyard. “You're never truly alone here. It's worse in the godswood.”

“Will you take me to see it?” Margaery asks.

Sansa nods. “It's important. No one in my family really cares much about religion now, but we've always kept the Old Gods. All our ceremonies, weddings, funerals, everything. It's all done in the old way.” She tugs on Margaery's hand, pulling her towards the keep proper. “Come on. You get to see all the places the public isn't allowed to go.”

It's surprisingly warm inside. Sansa smirks when Margaery asks, and pulls off one of her gloves to press it against the stone. After a few seconds Margaery does the same. She can't help the surprised gasp that slips out of her mouth.

“How-?” she asks.

“Natural hot springs,” Sansa replies. She removes her hand and takes her other glove off, stuffing them into a coat pocket. “The water still runs through the walls. A functioning medieval heating system.”

Margaery runs her palm along the stone. “Amazing...” she whispers, and blushes when she notices Sansa staring. She pulls her gloves off as well and takes Sansa's hand again. Sansa's fingers are cool, but they quickly warm against Margaery's. There's displays of armour and weapons among the walls, paintings and tapestries blocked off by ropes. The great hall, as large as the one at Highgarden, if not larger, is partly blocked as well. But not to them. Sansa casually steps over the rope and helps Margaery do the same. They pass along tables hundreds of years old and up to the dais where the Starks would have feasted. With a grin, Sansa seats herself in the largest chair, and Margaery snaps a photo when she strikes a dramatic pose.

“My father would have sat here,” Sansa explains. “And my mother there. Then my brothers, and me and Arya, unless we had guests. The guest of honour would have sat at my father's right. So, in this case, that would be you.”

“Guest of honour, am I?” Margaery asks, slowly turning and aiming her phone camera around the room.

“Yeah,” Sansa says affectionately. “Come here.” She pats the seat next to her. Margaery rounds the large table and carefully settles in the chair. The wood has been worn down to a smooth softness over the years. Sansa takes her hand, and together they look out over the ghost of a once great space. Sunlight filters in through the windows, highlighting specks of dust drifting through the air.

“I feel like a queen,” Margaery says.

“You would have been one,” Sansa replies quietly. Her expression is serious when Margaery turns her head to look. “I would have been, if the kingdoms hadn't all unified. And you're my girlfriend, which means you would have been as well.”

Margaery's heart swells. She leans over, gripping the polished arm of Sansa's chair tightly and kisses her hard, teeth scraping at her lip, their only audience the silence of a hundred ghosts.

 

Sansa takes them through the keep, into rooms closed off to the public where items are kept in storage, through the rooms used by the Starks, some still fully furnished and others sparse or completely bare. Fireplaces dominate the largest, the rooms once belonging to the lord and lady stark. Through their window, Margaery can see out across the courtyard in one direction and towards the remains of the library in the other. There's a greenhouse as well, and the tall stone mausoleum that holds the entrance to the family crypt. What Margaery assumes is the godswood surrounds it.

There's an impressive collection of arms and armour still in the armoury as well, and a large greatsword hangs on the wall.

“It's a replica,” Sansa explains. A shadow falls over her face. “The real one was stolen and melted down. The _Lannisters_ still have one of the weapons that was reforged from its steel. We've tried to get them to give it back to us, but they refuse. They say it's a family heirloom now, since the sword belonged to their beloved Kingslayer.” Margaery sets a hand on Sansa's back and leads her from the room. Sansa locks the door firmly behind them. She leads them from the keep and along a small covered pathway into the library.

“A lot was lost in when the castle was destroyed,” Sansa explains, watching as Margaery cranes her head up to look towards the top of the tower. “Records, personal histories, that sort of thing. I try not to touch the books that are left.”

“I'm sorry,” Margaery says, turning to look at her. Sansa shrugs. Margaery doesn't say anything else. Sansa lets her linger and explore, and when Margaery is read to leave takes her past the broken remains of the greenhouse and into the godswood. True to her word, it feels worse in there than it does in the hall or the courtyard. _There are more than ghosts in these trees,_ Margaery thinks. She holds tightly to Sansa's hand. It's a queer sort of peace that gathers around them, like being out at night when the wind is gently blowing and the silence is enough to make goosebumps gather on the skin. Sansa knows the route through the trees like she grew up among them.

Margaery discovers very quickly that she can't look directly at the weirwood, with its white bark and eyes crying blood red sap in a pained face. Sansa puts her palm against the trunk and closes her eyes. A moment passes that Margaery can't understand, and doesn't think she ever will. She knows the Starks were the last family to keep the Old Gods, long after every other house began to worship the Seven. It's an old relationship, one unique to Sansa and her family. Even holding Sansa's hand feels like intruding. She drops it.

She stares at the pool by the tree's base instead. It's lightly frosted over, but the ground is bare of snow. Margaery sits on the root and pokes at the ice with her shoe until it breaks. The water beneath is clean and crystalline. Sansa sits next to her, sighing softly, pressing their bodies close together. She stares at the water as well. Margaery puts a hand on her leg and her head on Sansa's shoulder.

“It's pure enough to drink,” Sansa says, barely above a whisper. “The water. It always has been.” So Margaery does. The water is icy, but it's refreshing, and barely a handful banishes Margaery's thirst. Sansa smiles approvingly at her. “See?”

“But now my fingers are frozen,” Margaery jokes, drying her hand on her coat. Sansa takes it then and cradles it between her own, rubbing her thumbs against Margaery's knuckles. Margaery watches, aware of how her heart thuds against her chest, sounding like thunder in her ears. “Tell me about the weirwood,” she says.

“It's ancient,” Sansa replies. “One of the few left south of the wall. No one really knows how long it's been here.” She pauses. “The legends say that they're the eyes of the gods. That you can't lie in front of them. That's why important vows are exchanged in front of them. That way you know they won't be broken.”

Margaery glances at the tree's face. _If I said I love you,_ she thinks, studying the cracks in the carved visage, the drips of crimson staining the white wood, _would you believe me?_ It had crept up on her, and by the time she realized it it was far too late to do anything about it. When she admitted her suspicions to Loras, he had only given her a knowing look and told her not to worry, that Sansa is clearly smitten with her, but to be patient. Margaery has held her tongue ever since, and though the words threaten to spill out of her mouth now the bites them back, and is immensely grateful when Sansa stands and helps her to her feet and they leave the weirwood behind before it prompts Margaery to expose her secrets before their time.

 

“There's one more place I want to take you,” Sansa says. “Then we can goooo... get some hot chocolate?” Margaery can hear cars starting to pull up to the lot, disturbing the birds and the silence. The park's employees, she assumes, glancing at her phone. It's half an hour to opening.

“Sounds lovely,” she replies and links her arm through Sansa's. The godswood thins out behind them and opens back into the courtyard. They stop at the mausoleum, and the graveyard. Sansa flips through her keys and unlocks the heavy padlock that holds the door to the crypt shut. Margaery raises a brow and gives her a look. “This, however, doesn't sound lovely at all.”

“It's important,” Sansa says. “My whole family is buried here. All the Kings and Lords of the North. Everyone. I will be, too, someday.” Margaery doesn't want to think about Sansa dying. She squeezes her hand tightly. Sansa returns it and picks a torch out from a box set into the wall by the door. The bright beam is lost in the darkness. Empty scones dot either side of the wall. It's cleaner that Margaery thought it would be. Someone must regularly sweep away the cobwebs and gust. She doesn't envy whoever it is their task.

Sansa shines the torch along the statues of the Stark lords and their families. Each of them sits with a sword across their knees and a direwolf at their feet. Margaery can only make out a handful of the inscriptions, but Sansa seems to know them all by heart. She points to the statues sitting over the tombs and reads out the names and any information she knows. It's fascinating, being close to something so old, but Margaery feels like she doesn't belong and like she never will. There's a magic to the place, one that Margaery doesn't know. One that's long forgotten.

“No one but family is allowed down here,” Sansa says. “And the cleaning staff, but they only come a couple times a month.”

“Can we go?” Margaery asks. “I don't... want to intrude.” Sansa stares up at a statue bearing a remarkable likeness to her father, then nods and turns the light back towards the stairs. Sansa, who made sure to lock everything behind them, leads them back through the grounds and out to the parking lot, quietly greeting the staff members that they pass. Margaery feels better once they're back in the car. The ghosts of Winterfell haven't seen fit to follow them out of their haunt.

“I could really do with that hot chocolate,” Sansa says, smiling. Warm air blasts Margaery's face as the car engine starts. She takes Sansa's hand.

“Me, too,” she says. The car peels out of the car lot and down the road. The ruins are swallowed up by the woods. The sun has brightened the world around them. This time, Margaery changes the radio station until dance pours through the speakers, and she drums one hand against the side of her seat and taps the fingers of the other against Sansa's knuckles. When a song they both know comes on, Margaery finds herself singing loudly along with Sansa, smiling and laughing when they both stumble over the same verse.

They go to the Costa in what used to be Mole Town (since dubbed Milltown for the large windmills that still dominate the countryside) and sit as far away from the door as they can, cradling the large, pale ceramic mugs that hold their drinks. Sansa doesn't show any hesitance in letting Margaery touch her hands or lean over to kiss her cheek. If anyone recognizes her, it's not anyone Sansa cares about knowing about her and Margaery.

After two chocolates each and playing a quiz game on Sansa's phone, they bundle back up against the cold and head out into the bustle of mid-morning. They bustle into the car. All of the unease Margaery had felt in the ruins has melted away, leaving nothing but a warmth in her chest and stomach that is equal parts from the hot drinks and from being with Sansa. It's that heat that makes her stop Sansa before she can put the car into reverse, covering her hand and leaning forward to kiss her.

She expects Sansa to pull away, but she doesn't, meeting the urgency of Margaery's kiss. Margaery's other hand moves to Sansa's knee, and as she shifts for a better angle to kiss Sansa properly, her finger slip up along the inside of her girlfriend's thigh. Sansa's surprised moan sends an entirely different heat welling between Margaery's legs. She groans and presses in as much as she can, feeling the horny teenager again instead of someone in their mid-twenties, but the gear stick stills her movement. It digs painfully into her stomach. There's plenty of room for them in the back seat, Margaery thinks, sliding her hand higher. All they would need to do is move the car to a slightly less conspicuous spot and then-

A horn honking breaks them apart, panting and blushing. Margaery turns to scowl in the direction of the noise (someone not watching where they were going and nearly backing into another car) and runs her hands down her face. She digs her fingertips into her skin and sighs into the heels of her palms. Sansa clears her throat and exhales harshly. Margaery feels like she should apologize, but Sansa was just as eager as she was.

“I don't want to push you,” she says instead, “but _gods_ you are attractive.” When Sansa takes too long to reply, Margaery drops her hands to look at her. She's holding the steering wheel, head bowed, staring at nothing. Margaery's stomach twists nervously. She should have kept her mouth shut. Some brilliant politician she'll be if she can't even say the right thing around a pretty girl. A pretty girl that she's _dating_ , no less.

“I'm just... not ready yet,” Sansa says slowly. “It's not you, I promise. It's me. And I'll tell you why some day, I will, I just... can't right now.”

Margaery's heart hurts, but she reaches over to peel one of Sansa's hands loose and squeezes it firmly before kissing her knuckles and setting it on the gear stick. Sansa would never lie, she thinks, hoping her smile is reassuring. She understands, and thankfully her self-confidence is strong enough that she's not offended, but there's still a kernel of doubt, one that she thinks everyone harbours to some extent; a tiny voice in her mind that whispers, _what if it really is my fault?_

 


	20. Chapter 20

The ache between Margaery's legs has abated somewhat by the time they get back to the house, but it's left an uncomfortable wetness in its wake that Margaery has to excuse herself to the bathroom to clean up after a quick, embarrassed hello to Sansa's parents, the only Starks currently awake. The bathroom buys her some time. She cleans up and splashes water on her face with a heavy sigh. _It's not you_ , she tells her reflection firmly. _You've known Sansa has a secret since you met her. You can't force it out of her. When she's ready she'll tell you._ It's several minutes before she's ready to face the family again.

“I thought you got lost,” Sansa says when Margaery re-enters the kitchen. She's sitting at the island with a plate of food in front of her. She gestures to the one next to her. “Fresh bacon,” she says. “You won't find better.” Margaery sits, giving a polite smile to Ned and Catelyn. The two join her and Sansa after a pile of mail has been sorted, armed with coffee and smiles.

“Did Sansa take you to the ruins, Margaery?” Ned asks. Margaery nods, her mouth full. “She gave you the full tour, I trust.”

“Yeah. It's beatufiul.”

“She showed you the godswood, then?” Catelyn asks. Even with a face washed free of make up she's beautiful. She must have been a stunner when she was young. Margaery blushes at her own thought.

“Yeah,” she replies, quickly taking a sip of the juice that accompanies her breakfast.

“What did you think of it?” Catelyn asks. It feels like a loaded question. Margaery carefully chews, considering.

“It was haunting,” she replies. “Quiet, but not peaceful. I wouldn't want to linger with the old gods watching me.” Her answer earns a laugh from Ned.

“Cat feels the same way,” he says. “Sansa, too. I'm surprised she showed you.”

“I wanted her to have the full experience,” Sansa says. “Without the tourists.” She doesn't mention the trip down to the crypt, and neither does Margaery.

Soon the scent of food has lured the rest of the family (and their dogs) out of bed, and the kitchen is filled with laughter and conversation so lout that Margaery can barely think. Likely for the best considering the current state of her internal monologue. She finishes her breakfast, pours some coffee, and excuses herself to the nearest sitting room. Settling into a plush chair, she closes her eyes and listens to fragments of conversation drifting out from the kitchen.

Several minutes later she feels someone watching her, and opens her eyes to see Jon's dog sat a foot or so away, ruby eyes focused on her. Margaery smiles and pats her knee. Ghost tilts his head.

“Come here, boy,” Margaery says gently. Silent as his namesake, Ghost pads over to her and gives her hand a curious sniff. Margaery waits, then scratches behind his ear. He bumps his head against her hand, then curls up at her feet. Margaery relaxes and closes her eyes again.

“He likes you.”

Margaery gasps and jolts upright. Jon chuckles and grins at her. Ghost's ears perk up, but he doesn't move. Jon crosses tot hem and crouches before his pet, ruffling the fur around his neck.

“You should feel lucky. He's the runt of the litter, doesn't trust easy.”

“I'm honoured,” Margaery says, waiting for her heart to drop from her throat to her chest.

“You should be,” Jon says jokingly, smiling up at her. Then his face grows serious. Margaery easily hides a sudden wave of anxiety. “I see how you look at my little sister,” Jon continues. Margaery evenly meets his gaze. “You love her, don't you?” _Thank god for all those poker nights with Grandmother,_ Margaery thinks, feigning ignorance. Jon gives her a look. Margaery sighs. _Well, if I'm that see-through there's no point lying, is there?_ “Don't worry,” Jon says. “Your secret's safe with me.”

“It's not a secret,” Margaery replies. “It's just not the right time to tell her. And now we're here, and... I'm not going to blurt out how I feel in front of everyone. She'd hate me.”

“She wouldn't, and I reckon she feels the same judging by how she was looking at _you_ last night. She just doesn't know it yet. She's careful with her heart these days, our Sansa.”

“Why?” Margaery asks before she can stop herself. Jon shrugs and sits properly on the floor, legs crossed. Ghost puts his chin on Jon's knee, but keeps his body pressed against Margaery's ankle.

“She had a bad relationship a few years back,” Jon explains. “Didn't tell us the details, but... the guy was a prick. Don't think she's recovered from it.”

“So it's not me, then?” Margaery asks.

Jon pauses, still gently petting Ghost's head. “When Sansa first brought Joffrey to visit, Nymeria nearly took his arm off. The dogs have done nothing but show love to you, so I'd say you're in the clear. They've got better intuition than most, this pack. If you were a threat, Lady wouldn't have let you close to Sansa. She's more viscous than you'd think.”

“Well that's a relief,” Margaery says with a levity she doesn't _quite_ feel. Jon smiles at her, and when he stands Ghost puts his head on Margaery's foot. “Robb and I were thinking about betting to see who got to ask you out first, but I'll tell him it's off.” Margaery cocks a brow. She should be offended, but the attention from men has always been flattering, even if girls have always been her preference. “How about we all go out to a pub tonight? I think one in Milltown has got a karaoke night on. You haven't lived until you've seen Sansa drunk and singing.”

That, at least, makes Margaery laugh. “Sign me up,” she says. Jon grins at her, ruffles his hair, and leaves her alone in the room with Ghost for company. A shame the dog can't protect her from her own doubts and fears.

 

“I can't believe they were going to bet on asking you out,” Sansa says, her voice full of exasperation. They're out on the back porch, sipping warm cider and basking in the last of the sun while they wait for the others to get their shit together so they can leave. Surprisingly, Sansa was the first one ready, but it's a lot easier preparing for a night out when you're not looking to pull, something Margaery is very glad isn't an issue. The boys, however, seem desperate to do so.

“It's quite funny, really,” Margaery replies. She glances behind them at the closed doors, and seeing no one, reaches over and gives Sansa's hand a gentle squeeze. Her skin is cold. Margaery wishes she could warm it, but holding on for too long has risks. The day had been a slow one, calm and relaxing. Margaery felt better when she realized that Jon had been telling the truth, and that he had no intention of telling anyone in the family about her and Sansa. They had had some time to themselves (like now for example) when they had elected to take their meal into the basement and cuddled up onto the couch to watch TV. It was nice to be close to her. Sansa was so much different at home. So much happier. Of course, Margaery liked to think she had something to do with it, but she knew it was mostly to do with being around her family again. Margaery understood that. She was as close to her own.

“Why did Jon call it off?” Sansa asks. She's rubbing her thumb over Margaery's knuckles. It's soothing.

“I don't know,” Margaery says. “I guess he realized I'm not some prize to be won.”

“Good. I'd be terribly jealous if either of my knobhead brothers had tried it on.”

“Oh, really?” Margaery says, leaning in with a smirk on her lips. Sansa giggles nervously and blushes, nodding. “And why is that?”

“Because you're mine,” Sansa mumbled. A rush of warmth shoots through Margaery's stomach. She leans in for a kiss, but the door opens behind them and they shoot apart, both of them blushing bright red. Arya gives them a suspicious look.

“Let's go lard arses,” she says.

“Arya!” Sansa shouts in a scandalized tone. Margaery suppresses a snorted laugh. Arya just rolls her eyes and leaves, the door open, waiting for them to follow. The boys' voices are a soft murmur. One of the dogs yips and there's the sound of a playful scuffle until Robb shouts and they break apart. Margaery sighs, quickly kisses Sansa's knuckles, and heads inside, Sansa on her heel. They lock up the house and trail after the rest of the family, piling into a small, but nice car. Jon has called shotgun, leaving Margaery in the back with Sansa sandwiched between herself and Arya.

It's not a very long drive to Milltown, but with a car full of Starks it's a very loud one. They crank up the music and roll down the windows and Margaery is grateful for the warmth of Sansa's thigh pressed against hers. In the dark, she feels secure enough to put her hand on Sansa's leg. Sansa covers it, squeezes, then Arya says something offensive and it starts a scuffle that ends with Margaery pressed up against the door. All she can smell is Sansa's perfume, her shampoo. _God I need a drink._

 

At least there's plenty of those. Between the Starks and Margaery's personal funds, they have enough to buy rounds for the entire bar a dozen times over. They grab a private table in the back with their own karaoke booth and two trays of shots. Margaery downs both of hers one after the other, savouring the burn down her throat. They put on music, not quite loud enough to drown out the clatter from the bar, but none of them are drunk enough to pick up a mic and start singing. Margaery wonders who will be first. She glances at Sansa, never an expert at holding her liquor, but she doesn't know Robb or Jon well enough to tell. Arya doesn't figure into the equation at all. She may be the youngest among them, but Margaery can tell that she's no stranger to drunken nights out.

One round goes down, then the other. Sansa's already leaning into Margaery, head almost on her shoulder. Robb gets up to fetch another try, and while he's gone Jon tells a series of embarrassing stories that has them all in stitches by the time he gets back. The bewildered look on his face has Margaery laughing so hard she almost spits out her drink. Sansa's still pressed against her. Beneath the table her hand is on Margaery's leg, just above her knee. Her thumb presses and rubs circles. Margaery throws back another shot.

A short drinking contest decides who goes up to sing first. Predictably, Sansa loses. Amid cheers from her family and several shoves, Sansa stumbles out from behind the table and flips through the songs on the karaoke machine. Margaery settles back, nursing a beer. Sansa looks nervous, fumbling, but then Robb goes up to join her and together they manage to absolutely butcher Dancing Queen. As the official loser, it's Sansa' turn to fetch the next round of drinks as well while Jon and Arya pick out what they want to sing. She's gone a very long time.

“D'you think she got lost?” Robb asks, leaning over so Margaery can hear him over his siblings' atrocious drunk singing.

“I'll go look!” Margaery shouts back. She scoots over Robb's lap, squeezing between him and the table, and pauses to let her head settle before stretching and heading out to the main room. The sight that meets her when she finally spots Sansa's red hair above the heads of the other people in the room makes her guts churn. It's not Sansa, it would never be Sansa, but Sansa is rather awkward when it comes to romantic social situations and being drunk obviously isn't helping. _Think rationally,_ Margaery tells herself. Easier thought than done with tequila and beer running rampant in her blood. She shoves through the crowd, feeling very short for all her height, until she's situated herself in front of Margaery and the blond boy talking to her. His laugh cuts off short at the look Margaery gives him and he clears his throat and excuses himself. Margaery picks up the tray of drinks at Sansa's elbow and crooks a brow.

“Are you coming?” she asks. Sansa hesitates, then nods. Margaery feels her fingers curl around the sleeve of her shirt, holding onto her like a baby duckling as Margaery navigates the crowd. “What was all that about?”

“I'm sorry,” Sansa says. “He looked like... nevermind.”

“Tell me,” Margaery says, but her voice is lost in the noise of the bar. Then they're with Sansa's family and there's no opportunity to ask again. Margaery takes her turn singing, distracted, watching how all of Sansa's cheer seems to have drained away. Not even the jokes being tossed back and forth can pry more than a soft huff out of her.

Jon, the most sober of them, trades his alcohol for water a couple hours before they plan to leave, and when they pay their tab and suit up against a chilly night, he's steady on his feet, walking straight, and talking clearly. He keeps the windows down, but the music is softer. Ten minutes later Robb starts snoring softly, and Arya hasn't moved since she buckled up. Margaery looks at the blackness on the other side of the window, forehead pressed against the cold glass. She's just closed her eyes when she feels Sansa's hand slide up her thigh. Margaery's throat tightens. She inhales deeply and parts her legs just enough. Sansa's fingers barely touch the top of her leg, but it's enough. There are lips on her neck, gentle and loving. Margaery bites back a groan.

“Sansa,” she whispers, looking at the rear mirror, but Jon's eyes are on the road. Sansa doesn't answer. Her lips find Margaery's ear, suck on the lobe. Her hand stays resting on her thigh. Margaery shifts in her seat, hot and aching, but Sansa stops, and for the rest of what feels like a very long drive home, Margaery's teased by the cool, soft tickle of Sansa's breath on her skin.

 

They wake up the dogs when they get home, but they must be used to their masters coming in at all hours of the night, because they don't make a sound. Either that or they recognize their scent even coated as they all are in alcohol and sweat and perfume. Ghost snakes around Margaery's legs then licks her fingers and trots off after Jon. Sansa has her face buried in Lady's neck. The dog sits patiently, her head on Sansa's shoulder. Margaery waits, watching. The Starks say their goodnights and head off. Lady licks Sansa's cheek then stands and shakes herself bodily. Sansa gets up, reaches for Margaery's hand, and pulls her towards the stairs.

Margaery expects her to stop and say goodnight before heading up to the next floor and her bed, where Lady is already going, but before Margaery can open her mouth to speak she's being tugged into the room and the door is being shut with her back, Sansa's tall, lithe body pressing against hers. Her startled moan is muffled by Sansa's demanding lips and the breath is stolen from her lungs when Sansa's kisses move down, a line of liquid fire burning down her throat.

All she feels is Sansa. All she smells is Sansa. The ache between her legs returns with a vengeance and this time Margaery heeds its call, pushing Sansa back and stumbling towards the bed, tugging at clothes. Sansa grunts when the backs of her knees hit the bed. She sits, face level with Margaery's chest, hands cold on the bare skin of her hips. She presses her face between Margaery's tits, nuzzling through the fabric of her sweater. Margaery struggles to get it off, wincing when it catches in her earring before slipping free and drops it. Sansa stares. Margaery can hardly see her face in the dark, but she's afraid to break the spell by turning on a lamp. Then there's lips on her skin and she forgets everything.

It must be the alcohol making Sansa so sure, because Margaery doesn't think she could have done this before, not if what Jon told her about Joffrey is true (and Margaery doesn't see why he would lie). Margaery goes for Sansa's shirt next, pushing her back and sitting in her lap, stealing rough kisses as she works the shirt up. Sansa lifts her arms to help. Margaery shudders at the moan that Sansa breathes as Margaery touches her chest and kisses her neck, groaning at the soft pliancy of Sansa's breasts under her hands.

They wrangle themselves properly onto the bed in a mess of reaching limbs and desperate kisses. Margaery's pants are undone, her shoes are gone, and Sansa's thigh is giving her friction but not enough, not what she needs. Her fingers fumble at Sansa's jeans, wanting more flesh to explore, and pull off them and her shoes in one go. With the moonlight shining faintly through the window and Margaery's eyes adjusted to the dark, she gazes down on the pale skin of her girlfriend and hears her heart pounding in her ears. Sansa looks like an ethereal goddess, stretched out, her chest heaving, eyes glinting black. Margaery runs her hands up Sansa's legs, leaning in to kiss her-

And then stops, fingers finding marks on the insides of Sansa's legs. Sansa recoils, jerking away from Margaery's touch and snatches up her jeans, tugging them back on.

“Sansa,” Margaery says, reaching for her. Sansa gives her a horrified look, her face trembling, then collapses into Margaery's arms, face against her neck. Margaery feels dampness on her skin. She hugs Sansa tight and strokes her hair, kissing her ear and cheek. “Sansa, what's wrong? What happened?” She pauses and fights against a bitter scowl. “Is this because of Joffrey.” Sansa stiffens in her arms. “Jon told me. Not in detail.”

“Don't make me talk about it,” Sansa says. Her voice is thick. “Please.”

“Okay,” Margaery says. “Okay. Come on, under the blankets.” With gentle urging Margaery guides Sansa under the sheets. She climbs off the bed and turns her back to Sansa, fumbling around in the dark for where she dropped her sleep shirt that morning and pulling it on before she unhooks her bra. Back in bed, warm under the covers, she presses herself as tightly against Sansa as she can, arm cinched around her waist. Sansa's stopped crying, but she's still sniffing, and snuggles back against Margaery.

“I'm sorry,” Margaery says. “I didn't mean to push. I just...”

“I'll tell you when we get back,” Sansa whispers. “Everything. I promise.”

“Okay,” Margaery says. She kisses just behind Sansa's ear and gives her middle a squeeze, and hums a lullaby until she feels Sansa's body relax into sleep. The alcohol does its work then. Adrenaline gone, even though the ache of her desire remains, it's easy enough for her to follow her girlfriend into dreams of kisses and wolves.

 


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for being patient and still caring about this story. I won't make promises with updates but I do have another one almost ready and hopefully there won't be any long delays again.

When she wakes up her head hurts, but it's not the worst hangover she's had by far. Some pills and a good breakfast and she'll be right as rain. It's Sansa she's worried about, still half curled up in Margaery's arms, her breathing the deep, heavy flow of proper sleep. Margaery wants nothing more than to join her, but her brain's awake now and her thoughts refuse to let her relax again. She noses Sansa's hair aside and rests her lips against the back of Sansa's neck. The denim of Sansa's jeans scratch against her bare legs. Margaery's brow dents. If she ever meets Joffrey she's going to hit him so hard the chance of kids won't even be a dream, let alone a possibility. How could anyone hurt someone so much that they took to hurting themselves to cope?

She doesn't blame Sansa. She never would. She trusts that Sansa will keep her word and tell her the truth when they get back to King's Landing. She strokes the sleep warm skin of Sansa's stomach, then sighs and rolls away. It won't be very good for appearances if they're found half naked in bed together, and Margaery isn't about to add an accidental outing to Sansa's list of problems. As quietly as she can she changes and pulls her hair up off her neck. She's trying to fix the zipper on a hoodie when Sansa grumbles from the bed and stretches.

Her eyes are slightly red and swollen, bloodshot from the late night out and the small amount of sleep. Margaery smiles at her, and while Sansa returns it, it's small and reluctant. She sits up, holding the blankets to her chest until she sees where Margaery threw her shirt the night before. Margaery turns away to give her privacy. With a sharp jerk the zipper gives, and Margaery pulls it up all the way, shoving her chilly hands into her pockets.

“How do you feel?” she asks.

“Not as rough as I thought I would,” Sansa replies in a small voice. “Hungry, though.”

“Me, too. Want to see if we can rustle up something fattening?”

“Mum's probably up,” Sansa says. She slips out of the bed, goosebumps on her arms and hugging herself. Her hair is sticking up in the back, a little knot right at the base of her skull. Margaery's does the same thing behind both of her ears.

“Better for us then,” Margaery says. “I'm a rubbish cook.” Sansa chuckles and smiles, looking a bit like her normal self. Margaery gives her a crooked grin back and opens the door. She nearly trips over Lady, who's set herself up outside the door. She yawns, pink tongue lolling, and stretches her long body out, purposefully blocking the door until she shakes her large head and licks her nose and lets Margaery pass so she can bump her snout against Sansa's hand. Lady follows them downstairs at Sansa's heels, the tags on her collar jingling softly. Margaery could hear soft voices in the kitchen, but didn't realize it was a hushed argument until they were already in the room.

“We don't even know if it is anything, Cat,” Ned is saying. He looks haggard and tired, the shadow of stubble on his cheeks and jaw and bags under his eyes.

“She deserves to know,” Cat says harshly. She looks like she has more to say but then Lady's nails click on the floor and they both turn to look, faces like children caught with their hands in the sweets jar. But then Cat smiles. “Morning, love,” she says, gaze going from Margaery to where Sansa is just padding in. “All right? Have a good night out?”

“Yeah,” Margaery replies. “Came down to have a bite.”

“I'll get something cooked up for you.” She glares at her husband who sighs heavily and takes his mug of coffee out of the room. Something uncomfortable stirs in Margaery's gut but she knows better than to say anything. This isn't her family. Whatever's going on between Ned and Cat, it's not any of her business, even if it's got something to do with Sansa. So Margaery sits and hides a yawn behind her hand. She'd be happy just for a bowl of cereal, but Cat must be channelling whatever she's feeling into cooking because soon enough the smoky smell of bacon is filling the room and judging by the sudden thumping from the upper levels it's gone to the rest of the house as well. The rest of the Stark clan comes hurrying down in various states of dress followed by their pets. The clamour hurts Margaery's head, but she nurses the tea Catlyn gives her and keeps her knee touching Sansa's. If Sansa did hear anything, either she's keeping it to herself or the commotion of her brothers and sister is providing enough of a distraction that she's forgotten. Margaery hopes it's the latter.

 

That night, emboldened by drink and the dark, Sansa warm against her and her brothers distracted by the movie their playing, Margaery slips her phone out of her pocket and tilts the screen away from the others, thankful that she's been pushed up against the arm of the sofa. The bright light makes her squint and blink. She's so close to Sansa she can feel Sansa's phone vibrate, and moves her leg to let Sansa pull it out. She can hear Sansa's sharp intake of breath, feel how her body tenses, and bites her lip to keep from smiling. She meets Sansa's eyes in the dark and finishes off her beer. Sansa is tapping away at her phone when Margaery disentangles herself to get another drink from the fridge. Her phone is blinking when she sits back down.

_What would you do?_

Margaery's stomach is in knots, her heart whispering rapid beats in her ears. _Kiss you everywhere. Slip my hand up your shirt. Under your bra._ She's no poet, but she doesn't think Sansa will mind. She puts her legs back over Sansa's lap, watching the movie flicker in her black eyes and turn her hair and skin blue.

_I'd like that._

Now it's Margaery's turn to struggle to breathe. _What if it was my mouth? Not my hand._

_I'd like that even more._

There's two empty beer bottles in front of Sansa on the table, next to where she's stretched her long legs out. How much of this is the alcohol talking, Margaery wonders, shifting and pressing her thighs together against a gentle throb.

_What if I left a mark?_

_I'm yours to mark._

All Margaery can think of to say is, _I want you so fucking bad._

Sansa doesn't text back. Instead she meets Margaery's gaze and slides a hand over her knee and along her thigh, stopping halfway and squeezing. Margaery sees her mouth _soon_ then has to close her eyes and bite her lip to stop from making any sound. She wants to keep playing this game, but how far will it go before Sansa considers it too much? What if Margaery crosses the invisible line between them, the one drawn by Joffrey and his and Sansa's past?

Sansa's talking big, but how much does she really mean?

 

The next couple weeks pass quickly enough. Margaery doesn't quite grow used to the cold but by the time they're set to leave she's stopped wearing three pairs of socks and two shirts under a sweater. She doesn't think she'll ever have the same tolerance for it that Sansa does, though. There must be something in her blood that makes her resistant to all but the coldest of days. But Sansa makes sure she's bundled up properly the day before they leave when Sansa finally takes her into the woods with Lady to accompany them. The dog trots at Sansa's side without needing a leash, her nose to the ground half the time and in the air the rest. When they're out of sight of the house, hidden by the tall, thick trees, Sansa takes Margaery's hand. Margaery squeezes it tight and lets Sansa take the lead.

Margaery has spent plenty of time in the woods around her own home, although she spent far more in the cultured gardens of her estate, but she knew that they were supposed to be loud and full of life. But these woods... aside from the crunch of her and Sansa's feet on the twigs and leaves of the undergrowth and Lady's soft snuffling it was unnaturally silent. They're too far in for the wind to penetrate the thick trees, and without the full strength of the sun to bear down on them it's cold as well. Margaery huddles into her hoodie and steps closer to Sansa, resting her head on Sansa's shoulder. The hair on the back of her neck is up. Sansa doesn't seem bothered at all. She waltzes through the trees like there's a path to guide her, dragging Margaery along for the ride.

Lady sees or hears something and darts off through the undergrowth. Margaery would have shouted for her to come back, but Sansa lets her go, a secretive smile on her face.

“She's descended from direwolves,” she says. “They all are. Creatures of the north. The true north. Beyond the Wall.”

“Have you ever been past the Wall?” Margaery asks.

“No,” Sansa says. “My parents say it's still too wild. That the people up there are different. All the years of separation, forced and otherwise. They don't like us. You think I'm a Northerner? We're all Southerners to them. And they treat you like one. But I want to, someday.”

“Maybe I could go with you?” Margaery asks.

Sansa grins at her, bold and bright. “It's colder up there, you know. You can barely stands this.”

“I'll be fine if I'm with you.”

“After school, maybe. I can take a gap year. Go travelling. Like Jof-” Sansa catches herself, clears her throat. Margaery bites her lip. “You can come with me if you'd like to.”

Lady comes back with a bird in her mouth. It makes Margaery want to be sick, but Sansa tells her to drop it then scritches her ears and praises her for being such a good hunter.

“I thought only cats do that,” Margaery says. She shoves her hands into her pockets to keep them warm.

“They're just as much hunters as cats are,” Sansa tells her. Lady sniffs at the bird then leaves it for the forest and they continue along. Everything around Margaery looks the same. She can't tell what direction they're going in or where they've come from. If she could see the sun she could at least know if they were facing east or est, but all she can see when she looks up is endless green and bits of grey between the boughs. But no golden sun. Margaery's been more comfortable in her life, but with Sansa next to her she's not afraid of being lost.

“Are we going anywhere specific?” she asks, even though it feels like a sin to break the silence, because they've been walking for ages and haven't gone anywhere, and as pretty as the trees are, they're boring when they're all Margaery can see.

“You'll see when we get there,” Sansa replies. “It's nothing special, at least not looking at it.” The _it's important to me_ doesn't need to be spoken for Margaery to understand that it's there. She squeezes Sansa's hand and doesn't say another word. Sansa knows the forest and that's enough for her.

So they walk, for another five or so minutes. Margaery imagines Sansa tumbling through the woods with her siblings and their dogs, laughing and screaming. It feels like they've been gone for ages, but it can't have been for more than fifteen minutes. Something in Sansa changes, the way she holds herself, the grip of her fingers in Margaery's hand. They emerge into a small clearing. Margaery frowns, pushing her hair out of her face as a sudden breeze catches it. It takes her a handful of seconds to notice the battered treehouse off to one side.

“Dad built it for me,” Sansa explains. “He knew I'd never be hurt if I had Lady with me, and it's not that far from the house. Gave me a place where I didn't have to deal with Arya pulling my hair or flicking spoonfuls of food at me, and where I didn't have to be in my brothers' shadows.”

“Is it safe?” Margaery asks, resisting gently as Sansa pulls her forward.

“Of course it is. I came up here before I left for King's Landing. I just wanted to see it again before we left, and I wanted to show you.” Her smile is so sweet that Margaery lets herself be led, her body like jelly. She wonders if it's a sort of apology for how Sansa acted the previous night. If Sansa is trying to soothe the wound she caused by being so abrupt and closed off about whatever happened between her and Joffrey. A small part of her holds out hope that Sansa will tell her now, where they're surrounded by nothing except the silence of the forest.

Sansa places Margaery's hand on the ladder and gives her an encouraging push. Lady disappears around the side of the trunk. The wood slats creak under Margaery's hands and feet, but they hold, and the ladder is steady. She emerges into an almost bare, slightly dusty, small room. It's tall enough for her to stand, though Ned clearly hadn't anticipated Sansa growing as tall as she did. There's a window with glass that needs badly cleaned, but is whole, and a small, dog sized door that Lady pops through a second later.

“Dad put in stairs for her,” Sansa explains, hoisting herself up with a little grunt. She stoops while she looks for a place to sit, then quickly folds herself into a bean chair, releasing a cloud of dust that makes her cough through her grin. There's a little blush on her cheeks in the dim light when she gestures for Margaery to join her, patting her lap. Margaery sits carefully, curling into Sansa's warmth. Lady scratches the back of her jaw with a large paw then yawns and stretches out on a worn spot on the floor.

Sansa puts her head on Margaery's shoulder, nose just touching her neck. “Thank you. For not pushing me the other night.”

“As long as you promise to always tell me if it's something I done,” Margaery says. She means it as a joke, but it comes out too tightly. Sansa gives her waist to squeeze.

“I do promise it doesn't have anything to do with you. What we did was... It felt good.” She kisses Margaery's neck and steals the breath from her lungs.

“Have you ever done that before?” Margaery asks. Sansa shakes her head. “I won't ever force you.”

“I know you won't.” Sansa sounds so grateful that Margaery wants to cry. “I w-I want to, though.” Margaery feels her body tense. Her throat tightens and her stomach twists. Her heart starts to beat in earnest. There's sweat gathering on her palms even though her hands are cold. If her and Sansa fucked here there'd be no one but them to hear (and Lady, but Margaery's fairly certain that all it would take is command to make the dog disappear for an hour or two). She twists on Sansa's lap and grips her chin gently, tilting her head back and bringing their lips together. It takes all the restraint she has in her not to deepen it. Sansa tastes like maple syrup and a bit like toothpaste, and her lips are soft and warm. Margaery could do nothing but kiss her for the rest of her life and die a happy woman, she knows that without having to think about it.

Margaery pauses for breath, but doesn't pull away. Sansa has a hand in her hair, thumb rubbing just behind her ear. She's improved a lot since her and Margaery started dating, not that she was bad before. Margaery likes to think it's because she's such a brilliant teacher. She's certainly given Sansa a lot of practice, and intends to give her much, _much_ more.

She breaks the kiss before the tension in the pit of her stomach can grow into an unmanageable knot. Their lips are going to be swollen when they get back to the house. There's nothing Margaery can think of that will hide that. She can only pray to all the gods that if anyone notices they don't make a comment on it.

“How long can we stay here?” Margaery asks.

“Someone will text when they miss us,” Sansa says. “Until then, I'm all yours.”  _I'm more yours than I think you know,_ Margaery thinks. Her love feels like a hammer in her ribs.

 

Even though Margaery misses being able to sun herself without freezing her tits off, there's a part of her that's been left behind in Winterfell, and when they pile onto the train after tearful goodbyes Margaery's staring out the window just as longingly as Sansa is.

 

Sansa sobers as they steadily travel back south. Margaery slips out of her hoodie and the sweater she's wearing underneath, leaving her bare arms free to the air. She's already lost some of her tan, but her skin is still a shade or two darker than Sansa's. She twists their fingers together and Sansa plays with one of her rings, twisting it around and around. Margaery kisses her cheek and nuzzles her jaw, offering what comfort she can when words are lost to her. Sansa smiles appreciatively and squeezes her hand.

After a while, Margaery dozes off. She doesn't remember doing it, but the next thing she's aware of is Sansa gently shaking her awake.

“Next stop is ours,” she says, just loud enough for Margaery to hear her over the commotion of their fellow travellers readying to depart. Margaery stretches and rubs a bleary eye with a knuckle, watching as Sansa easily pulls their luggage down from the overhead rack. As the train starts to slow, they shuffle towards the door, bunching against the people in front of and behind them. Margaery can feel Sansa behind her. She twists and tilts her head up, pouting her lips for a kiss. Sansa hesitates, but dips and gives her a quick peck, then nudges her arse to get her moving.

The heat of King's Landing envelops her, filling her nose and stinging her eyes. She almost misses the cold of the north, but she can almost _feel_ the sun on her skin. Margaery closes her eyes and inhales deeply.

“I feel like a fruit tart,” she announces, “and an iced coffee. Want to stop for a bite before we reunite with Loras?”

“Yeah, where do you-”

“Well, well, this is the last place I thought I'd see you, Stark.” Margaery doesn't recognize the voice, but she doesn't need to know or see who's speaking to hear the smugness, the cruelty. It raises her hackles and makes her want to growl and bark like a guard dog. She turns quickly, opening her mouth to tell whoever it is to fuck off, but the way Sansa is standing, her bag on the ground, her hands clenched and shaking, tells her who it is without having to ask. Margaery recognizes him now that she's seen him in person. The large families have always been connected in one way or another, the Lannisters and the Tyrells more-so than some of the others. They've never met in person, but the Lannisters were never the kind to stay out of the lime light.

And Joffrey Baratheon looks like even more of a little shit than in his pictures.

 


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for: self harm/attempted self harm and NSFW

_He's not supposed to be here,_ Sansa thinks. _He's in Essos. He's supposed to be in Essos. For another year. Why is he here?_ He doesn't look any different; the same fair, curly hair, the same sharp eyes, the same crooked smirk. A vice is around her chest, crushing her ribs, bringing with it all the memories Sansa has spent so long trying to repress; the names, the teasing, the jokes at her expense, the pressure of being the perfect girlfriend for Westeros' poster dream boy. The scars on her thighs ache. She curls her fingers so tight that her nails, blunt as they are, cut painfully into her palms and her tendons strain against her skin. _Breathe,_ she tells herself. _You need to breathe._ But she can't. Each one is a struggle and her heart is beating so fast it feels like it's going to burst. There's sweat in the lines of her palms and down the back of her neck and on her brow.

“You Starks haven't grown any manners over the last millennia, have you?” Joffrey says. His voice makes Sansa want to vomit right there on the station platform, all over the concrete and Joffrey's expensive shoes. “Aren't you going to introduce me to your friend?”

 _Margaery._ She'd forgotten. Her jaw is locked shut. Joffrey starts to laugh. Margaery brushes past her in a blur, extending her hand. Her posture is stiff to Sansa's eyes. She doesn't like how Joffrey stares at her, like a hungry wolf eyeing up its next meal.

“Margaery Tyrell,” she says sharply. “Her _girlfriend._ ”

Sansa feels the world falling from beneath her feet.

“So the rumours were true?” Joffrey says, ignoring Margaery's hand. Sansa knows that glint in his eyes, that twist of his mouth. “You really are a huge dyke, then. You could do a lot better than this one, Margaery. She's a freak.”

It's all a blur what happens next. The slap of Margaery's palm against Joffrey's face, his shout of pain, the smack of concrete against Sansa's shoes as she half jogs half runs towards the station exit, Margaery calling after her. A startled cab driver hurries to help her with her bag. Margaery grabs her elbow.

“Sansa-!”

“Just leave me alone!” Sansa shouts, her voice cracking and her eyes welling with tears. Margaery's eyes widen with shock and her grip loosens just enough for Sansa to yank her arm away and tumble into the back seat. She slams the door in Margaery's face. Margaery starts, hand raising like she's going to reach for the handle and pull Sansa out or join her inside, but she just stands there as the car pulls away from the curb. She closes her eyes and listens to the Dornish music the driver is playing and the rattle of the engine. She tries to breathe in air that smells like spicy take out. How could Margaery do that? How could she be so stupid? Her family didn't even know that she liked girls at all, let alone one girl, let alone that she was _with_ one. How could Margaery think that telling Joffrey would make things any better at all?

She bit down on her hand to keep from crying. _Keep it together, Sansa. Don't cry. Don't let them see you cry._

She doesn't quite manage, but she tries her hardest. The driver asks if she needs help, but Sansa shakes her head, not trusting herself to speak. She holds tightly to her keys. The warm metal cuts into her flesh. Her hands shake when she opens the doors, so much that she drops her keys twice. She has to force herself to take a deep breath before she can calm down enough to let herself into the building. She wonders where Margaery is, if she'll try to come visit or if she'll go straight home to Loras. Maybe she'll realize that Sansa is a nutter and go off with Joffrey instead.

She thinks she locks the door behind her, but everything is blending together. Her body is still shaking. She drops her keys again, but this time she leaves them on the floor. She needs something to stop feeling like she's drowning, something sharp and present that she can focus on until she can bury her past again.

She shuts the bathroom door.

Bottles and a toothbrush scatter and clack across the tiles. The replacement box drops into the sink.

She presses the cold metal against her skin. It's not her leg, but she can't get the button to her pants open. If she wears a bracelet no one will see. Gods know she has plenty.

A bit of pressure.

The razor's kiss stings. It's like heroin. Her fingers twitch, ready to slide to the right.

There's a thump.

A slam.

A shout. Her name.

And then the bathroom door is open and Margaery is staring at her, her hair wild and her eyes bright, face flushed with heat. The harsh light above them shines on the sweat on her skin. Margaery's gaze drops from Sansa's to the blade at her wrist, to the thin red line of barely broken skin, then back again.

“What in the seven hells are you doing?”

“I-” The tears well again and fall in hot trails down Sansa's cheeks. “I can't-” _I can't deal with it. With him. With you. You don't understand!_ “I have to make it stop.”

“Make what stop?” Margaery asks. Her voice is trembling.

“The memories,” Sansa whispers. “The pain.”

“And this is how you're going to do it?” Margaery's voice is growing louder with each word until she's almost shouting. “By fucking slitting your wrists open!?” Sansa's never heard her sound so angry. She flinches at the sound and stares at the floor; white, spotless. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

It's that that snaps Sansa into action. She shoots to her feet, towering over Margaery, clutching the razor blade in her hand. It cuts into her fingers. Margaery takes a step backwards, on the defensive, but there's still anger in her eyes (and hurt, and worry, but Sansa can't see past her own rage).

“You want to know what's wrong with me?” she says harshly. “This! Me! Every day of my life for the past five _years_ I've lived with what Joffrey has done to me. All of the taunts and the jokes and the lies that he told, all of the manipulative bullshit that he pulled to get me to do exactly what he wanted, to shut up and be his perfect little mindless girlfriend. Starving myself because I didn't think I was skinny enough, cutting my legs every night because I didn't know how to deal with feeling like a piece of shit on the bottom of his shoe! And now he's back, and now he knows about you, and about us, and all those rumours all those terrible things he said are true, and-” her anger is starting to fade. Her face scrunches and her nose tingles and twitches as she starts to cry in earnest, “-I'm broken.” Her voice strains on the last word. It squeaks out of her throat. Her hand and wrist hurt now. The urge to harm is gone. The anger is gone. All that remains is a pit in her chest and the shaking and shuddering of her shoulders as she sobs.

Margaery's hands are soft and warm. She smells like roses. Carefully, she unfurls Sansa's fingers and plucks the razor from her palm. The end is red and wet.

“This isn't the solution, Sansa,” Margaery says, softly but firmly. She puts the box of blades on the edge of the sink and turns on the tap, holding Sansa's hand under the water. Her blood rushes down the drain. “And what he thinks doesn't matter any more. It didn't matter then.”

“You don't understand,” Sansa argues weakly.

“No, I don't,” Margaery says. She looks up, and now Sansa can see the affection and the worry in the honey irises and the crease of her brow. “I don't understand. I've never dealt with it. But I'm not going to abandon you and let you deal with it on your own. I'm your girlfriend. I care about you.” She sits Sansa down on the toilet and fetches the standardized first aid kit from under the sink, the one that's kept in every room and usually forgotten about immediately after orientation. There's not much in it; some wipes, a little bit of gauze, and a small roll of medical tape. Sansa wordlessly lets Margaery clean and bandage up the cuts on her fingers. She flexes them experimentally and winces. They're deep, but thankfully not enough to need stitches or cause any permanent damage.

Now that the adrenaline has faded, Sansa is tired, and she feels like an idiot. She knows this isn't the way to solve her issues, but when her emotions run high she doesn't think clearly, and seeing Joffrey again after so long, after everything he did. It was like a kick to the face.

“You must hate me,” Sansa mutters.

“No,” Margaery whispers. She touches Sansa's cheek with her silky fingers, imploring Sansa to look up. Margaery's eyes are wet, but no tears have fallen. “No,” she says again. “I don't hate you, Sansa. That's the exact opposite of how I feel.”

Margaery is so close and she smells so sweet that she starts to chase Sansa's memories back into the dark corners where they belong. She rubs her thumb against Sansa's cheek, brushes it across her bottom lip. They part at the touch. Margaery opens her mouth again as if to speak, then licks her lips and leans in for a kiss. Their lips meet once. Twice. Margaery's face is serious when she pulls away and tugs Sansa up to her feet. Her hair falls over her shoulder and into her face. Sansa brushes it aside. Margaery nuzzles into her palm like a cat, then stands on her tiptoes and throws her arms around Sansa's neck.

The next kiss has all the fire of their liaisons back in Winterfell and all the pent up frustration of kissing and touching for months but never taking it further. Sansa has no reason to stop it. Everything is out in the open now; Joffrey, her past, her scars. The details might need filling in, but now Margaery is one of the few people who knows the truth, and she's still there. She still wants Sansa. She's still touching Sansa. And Sansa has no intention of letting her go. Not now. Not ever.

It doesn't matter that her hand is bandaged and aching and that there's a small line of fire on her wrist where she had touched the edge of the blade. She twins her hands in Margaery's hair and deepens their kiss. Margaery's makes a sound that's half a whimper half a moan and stumbles back a step. Sansa feels the jolt at her spine hits the door frame. She's got her fingers in Sansa's hair, twisting and tugging, scraping her teeth over Sansa's bottom lip. Sansa can remember their drunken fumble after karaoke. She can remember Margaery's desperate hands on her skin. If Sansa hadn't started, hadn't freaked out..

Margaery turns her head. There's no brown in her eyes, only pools of black in her pretty flushed face. Her chest presses against Sansa's own with each ragged breath, and Sansa can hear nothing over the rush of her blood in her ears. Margaery's hands slip from her hair and slide down her neck, over her shoulders and along her arms until their hands are clasped. Her touch is careful, but there's no mistaking the look in her eyes, even for Sansa. Margaery tugs her out of the bathroom and into her bedroom, spinning them round slowly and pressing Sansa down onto the bed. They're at eye level, almost. Sansa only has to tip her chin slightly to look into Margaery's eyes. Margaery holds her face, stroking, gaze flicking between Sansa's eyes, and then her soft, warm lips are on Sansa's again.

A simple shift in weight has Sansa falling back into the comfort of the mattress, with Margaery on top of her, hands sliding up her sides. They push up Sansa's shirt, run over the bumps of her ribs. Sansa can hardly breathe, but it's not like falling into a void. Not with Margaery's palms radiating a warmth that seeps into Sansa's very bones. Sansa doesn't protest when Margaery pulls her shirt over her head and drinks in the sight of her, one lip pulled between her teeth. Sansa feels no desire to cover herself. Not any more. Not from Margaery.

She doesn't really know what she's doing (aside from a few late night internet searches that had left her burning and aching and horribly confused) but she's never trusted anyone more than she's trusted Margaery, and she's not afraid. She arches up, wanting to feel Margaery against her, and pulls her down for another kiss. Their teeth clack and they both moan, the sounds vibrating across Sansa's lips. Margaery's shirt joins Sansa's, slipping off the bed to the floor. Neither of them notice. Neither of them care. Sansa remembers this; how Margaery's skin feels under her hands. She remembers the heat of their kisses. She remembers Margaery finding the marks on her legs, how her hands stilled, how she hesitated with confusion.

It's happening again, Margaery's deft fingers working her jeans open and sliding them off. But she stops, and looks up, and holds Sansa's gaze. Her hair is mussed from Sansa's fingers and her lips swollen from kissing. She's never looked more beautiful. At the questioning look in her eyes, Sansa inhales deeply, and then slowly nods. It feels like worship when Margaery looks down and traces her fingertips over each and every scar. There are goosebumps on Sansa's skin and she can feel her body trembling. She clutches the sheets so hard that her wounded hand sharply stings and her knuckles turn white.

There are lips, a delicate brush across the inside of Sansa's thigh, and Margaery's soft voice drifting up to her ears. “I won't hurt you.”

Sansa melts into the sheets, an odd kind of relief flowing through her. Margaery slides up her body, kissing along her stomach and chest until her lips find Sansa's again. She tastes Margaery's tongue, feels it press against her teeth. Margaery's stomach twitches against hers as they press, hips grating and rolling. A hand snakes under Sansa's body, pressing against her spine and finding the clasp of her bra. Sansa wonders how many times Margaery has done this before, to have gotten so good at it. The thought rushes from her brain as soon as Margaery's mouth latches around a nipple. Sansa presses her thighs together, feeling the all too familiar ache between them and of the scars forever etched into her skin. Margaery brushes her tongue, her moan mingling with Sansa's, and clenches the sheets between her fingers. Sansa's find their way into Margaery's silky curls and there they stay, holding Margaery's head to her breast.

Even in her dreams Sansa never imagined this, how good it would feel to have Margaery suckling and teething, palming Sansa's other tit. When Sansa's lips begin to ache she gives Margaery's hair a tug. The kiss is sloppy and heated and beautiful. Sansa lets her body act on its own, half wrapping a leg around Margaery's waist and grinding up. The friction is delicious but it's not enough.

“Please,” she whispers, and Margaery's hand darts down, but before her fingers touch where Sansa's burning the hottest she stops and props herself up, her eyes black and intent and so loving that Sansa's heart almost breaks. Sansa knows she's nervous then. She's not just shaking from desire, and there's a queasy twist to her stomach and a frantic fluttering to her heart that's only partly to do with the fire that Margaery has stoked within her.

“I won't hurt you,” Margaery says again as her thumb teases beneath the band of Sansa's panties. “I know what I'm doing.”

“You've done it before,” Sansa says. She hates how her voice shakes. She turns her head, but Margaery stops her with a gentle touch to her chin.

“Never with anyone like you,” she says, and leans down for a soft, sweet kiss, sucking gently on Sansa's lip as she lets her fingers slide down through sparse curls to where Sansa needs her touch most. Sansa doesn't know how to describe what it's like to have Margaery's fingers there, exploring earnestly and expertly, lips swallowing up all of Sansa's sighs and gasps and moans. Her body knows how to respond, though. Her hips lift and twist, and soon enough she's clinging to Margaery like the world is going to end if she lets go. Margaery glances kisses off her jaw, sucks hard enough beneath her ear to leave a mark, and whispers words that make Sansa shudder.

“You're so beautiful, Sansa. Sweet Sansa. Sweet little bird, little wolf.” Her voice is full of ecstasy, her breath hot on Sansa's skin, and a few more passes of her skilled fingers is all it takes for Sansa to gasp and arch and muffle a sharp moan against Margaery's neck as her body shudders and she clings hard enough that there's sure to be nail marks in Margaery's shoulders in the morning. Margaery's fingers slow but never still, not until Sansa's violent shaking finally subsides into a faint trembling and her breathing finally returns to something resembling normal.

When she blinks her eyes open Margaery is staring at her, her hand damp and sticky against Sansa's hip.

“What?” Sansa asks. She still sounds breathless, and the look in Margaery's eyes is making her face burn.

Margaery leans up and kisses her stomach, then her chest, then finds her lips and kisses her long and slow until Sansa has no air left in her lungs. Sansa gathers Margaery into her arms, Joffrey and the cuts on her fingers and wrist completely forgotten. Their breasts and stomachs and hips touch and rub. Margaery nuzzles her neck and her lips move, mouthing words so quiet that Sansa can't hear them.

“What'd you say?” she asks.

Very slowly, Margaery raises her head and pushes Sansa's sweat soaked hair away from her brow. She trails the backs of her knuckles down Sansa's cheek, scrutinizing every detail on her face. She stares for so long that Sansa's nervousness starts to return and she crinkles her brow in a gentle frown. But before she can ask again, Margaery opens her mouth and says the three words Sansa didn't realize she was longing so much to hear.

“I love you.”

And Sansa stops falling.

She's drifting, slowly, through soft, wet clouds and warm sunlight, and she knows that on the ground there's something there to catch her.

Someone.

Margaery.

Who's never looked more afraid, more uncertain, as long as Sansa's known her. There's a thousand things Sansa wants to say, should say, but they all stick in her throat and catch on her tongue. She reaches up, cupping Margaery's flushed face in her hands and stroking her cheeks. Love. Such a strange emotion. Being so open to someone but wanting at the same time to close off and hide away. No one in the world can hurt you more than the person you love. Sansa doesn't want to be the person that hurts Margaery the way that Joffrey hurt her.

Sansa kisses her as her heart and mind catch on to what Margaery confessed and begin to race and spin, a nervous, happy, frightened flutter in her chest. Her heart is desperate to escape, to fly to a safe haven where no one can see the scars on it and where no one can hurt it again. Margaery's lips are desperate to keep it in her chest where it belongs. All of her kindness, her soft touches, her shouting and her irritation, everything over the past few months has been to show Sansa how she feels, to convince her not to be afraid. Sansa sees it now.

And to her combined horror and elation, realizes that she's never felt this way about anyone before, not even Joffrey (or what she thought she felt for Joffrey, she knows now it was all a lie, all infatuation and manipulation and fear and desperation). She tries to speak again, but her uncertainty cuts off her words. Instead, she pulls Margaery closer until there's not an inch of space between them and kisses her hard. Margaery whimpers against her mouth.

Finally, Sansa finds her tongue. “Tell me how.” She doesn't recognize her own voice; this low, desperate husk from deep in her throat.

“What?” Margaery half gasps, writhing under Sansa's roaming hands. There's muscle under Margaery's skin, but mostly she's soft and tender and pliable, her flesh creasing easily under the pressure from Sansa's fingers. She swallows down her uncertainty.

“Tell me how to touch you.”

Margaery groans, pushing her face into Sansa's neck. She kisses Sansa's fingertips, nips them, sucks one into her mouth with a look that makes Sansa ache all over again, then presses Sansa's palm against her breast. Sansa kneads automatically, watching with her fascination plain on her face how Margaery reacts to each touch. She brushes her thumb over Margaery's nipple, watching as it puckers beneath the pad, watching how Margaery pulls a lush, swollen lip between her teeth, a tiny line between her brows. Sansa nudges her onto her back, straddling her hips and gazing down at her. Her skin is flushed from her cheeks to her chest, fingers grappling at Sansa's hips as her own roll up in a short, steady rhythm. Sansa leans down, her hair forming a crimson curtain around their faces, and kisses Margaery into the pillows.

“Where?” she asks. “Where now?” She tries to keep her voice from shaking, tries to sound as confident as Margaery always acts. Margaery answers with a buck of her hips. Sansa can feel damp heat against her bare thigh where Margaery is grinding. Sansa meets her eyes, black and endless, and lightly rakes her nails down Margaery's stomach. Muscles twitch and clench under the scratch. Margaery's hand is tight in her hair. Just before Sansa's fingers make contact they're kissing again, until Sansa's fingers find slickness and sensitive flesh and Margaery bucks and moans.

“There,” she breathes in a voice half a sigh half a whine. “There.”

Sansa tries not to let her uncertainty show. She tries to emulate Margaery with pressure and circles, tries to pay attention to how Margaery reacts. Until Margaery takes her wrist and nudges her hand down. Sansa hesitates, her fingers sticky and shaking. Margaery finds her gaze and holds it, brushing her thumb over Sansa's lip. She covers Sansa's fingers and guides them in, her eyes rolling shut. Sansa's never felt anything like this in her life. She's familiar with her own body, to an extent, but to feel someone else around her fingers, this silken furnace gently clenching around her...

She feels the back of Margaery's hand pressing between their bodies, knuckles undulating as her fingers move and shift. Sansa frowns, afraid that she was unsatisfactory, but Margaery pulls her down for a searing kiss with her free hand twined in Sansa's hair.

“It f-feels better this way,” Margaery whispers. Sansa almost doesn't recognize her voice. “Thrust.”

Sansa does, and watches, fascinated, as Margaery's pleasure flits across her face, listens to her moans as they steadily grow louder, feels Margaery's body tighten under her, around her. She chances a kiss off Margaery's jaw, moving to her ear. She's not one for dirty talk, but she nips the lobe and sucks until Margaery begins to tug desperately on her hair. Sansa wants to press her face to Margaery's neck and stay as close as she can, but her curiosity wins out.

Margaery coming is like nothing Sansa has ever seen. Her lips are parted, head thrown back, eyes tightly screwed shut. Sansa feels a leg wrap around her waist and hips begin to buck up into hers. For half a minute nothing exists except for Margaery, moaning and trembling and clutching at Sansa like she'll die if she lets go. Then her entire body relaxes and slumps and her arms fall away, chest heaving as she sucks in air. Sansa very slowly pulls her fingers away. Margaery whimpers, then sighs. Sansa stares down at her hand, shiny and wet, then carefully wipes her fingers off on the duvet before stretching out against Margaery's side. She lays her palm against Margaery's chest and feels the frantic rhythm of her heart.

They're covered in sweat and the room smells like them, like the unmistakeable musk of sex. Sansa doesn't speak until Margaery's breathing has returned to something that resembles normal. Even then she's hesitant, her own body relaxing and her eyes growing heavy with sleep. Margaery finds her hand and kisses it gently, then holds it against her chest. Her eyes are closed. She looks half asleep.

Sansa pillows her head on Margaery's shoulder. “Do you mean it?” she asks. Margaery doesn't respond. Sansa thinks she's fallen asleep, but when she looks up Margaery's eyes are half open. They're brown again, now, soft and sweet. Her lips brush Sansa's brow.

“More than I've ever meant anything in my life.”

And for once, Sansa doesn't feel any doubt.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This feels a bit fillery but I didn't want to rob you guys of a chapter again.

Sansa wakes up with Margaery's arm crushed under her ribs and her hair tangled and stuck under Margaery's head. Her thighs and hips are sore in the most pleasant way, even though her fingers and wrist lightly sting when she flexes them. Her mouth is dry, she has a crick in her neck, and she has to pee, but Margaery's naked front is warm against her back and Sansa is unsurprisingly reluctant to move from the comfort of the bed and Margaery's embrace.

Margaery, who loves her. Who really loves her. Not the fake love that Sansa yearned for from Joffrey. Not the earth-shattering kind that Sansa read about in books and sees in TV shows. The real kind. The proper kind. Margaery is her best friend, more than Jeyne ever was. Sansa has never felt safer than when she's with Margaery, even when her fear threatened to swallow her whole.

She's not left long with her thoughts. Moments after she rouses herself to consciousness, she hears Margaery inhale deeply and softly, shifting behind her. She hums, smiling against the back of Sansa's shoulder, and strokes the base of her stomach.

“Good morning, sweet girl,” she says, followed by a kiss. “How are you feeling?”

“I dunno,” Sansa replies truthfully.

“Are you happy?”

“Yeah.”

“That's all that matters, then, at least for right now. We can worry about the rest later, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Sansa mutters.

Margaery gives her middle a squeeze. “I need a wee,” she announces and slips out of bed. Sansa winces as her hair pulls and Margaery makes a disgruntled noise in the back of her throat when she yanks her arm free. She shakes and rubs it on her way into the toilet. Sansa rolls onto her back and inhales deeply. The smell of sex has faded. There's a trace of Margaery's perfume on the sheets, mingling with Sansa's detergent. Sansa pulls Margaery's pillow over her face and hugs it tight. The plasters around her fingers will be a reminder, but she can ignore what happened with Joffrey for the moment, while she's sealed away in her room with her girlfriend a handful of feet away.

Maybe if she's lucky, Joffrey will leave her alone (but Sansa knows she's never been that lucky, and she'll have to deal with him sooner or later).

The toilet flushes, the tap runs. There's some clatter, and then the door opens. Sansa moves the pillow from her face in time to see Margaery stretch and then fix Sansa with a pointed look.

“If I leave those razor blades in there, are we going to have... issues?” she asks. There's an uncertainty to her voice, as if she doesn't know how to approach the subject and is desperate not to offend. Sansa shakes her head. “Good,” Margaery says. She flops on the bed, jostling Sansa, and staring at her with those big brown eyes and a small smile on her face. It fades when she reaches out to take Sansa's hand, careful of the cuts, and kisses a fingertip. “What are you going to do about him?”

“I dunno,” Sansa says.

“You could ignore him?”

“I've tried that.”

“Then you need to confront him. Tell him once and for all to fuck off. Make him see that he doesn't have any power over you any more.”

“It's not as easy as that,” Sansa says softly, and Margaery sighs, sounding defeated.

“I know.” She kisses Sansa's shoulder. “I know how to take it off your mind for a while.” Her voice is low, a soft purr by Sansa's ear. Sansa's body trembles gently. Margaery touches her chest, skims her hand over a breast, and moves down. Sansa lets her eyes flutter shut and her legs be nudged open. Margaery teases her fingers and kisses Sansa's jaw and for a while Sansa does forget. The only thing in her mind is Margaery and her clever fingers and soft lips. She wants it to last forever, the feeling of being suspended with Margaery the only thing holding her up. But nothing lasts forever, and Sansa falls over the edge. It's over almost too quickly, arching off the bed and biting her lip through a sharp moan. Margaery sprawls out half on top of her, kissing her lazily.

“Do you want to go see Loras?” Margaery asks with a little nudge to her nose.

For a few seconds Sansa can't reply, her breath short. Then, “If you want to I'll go with you.”

“I think he'll be happy to see you. And he might be able to help.”

“How can he help?” Sansa asks.

“Well, he's dating Renly Baratheon, and Renly happens to be your shit of an ex-boyfriend's uncle.”

Sansa hadn't made the connection when she met Renly. All she saw was a pretty, curly haired boy head over heels in love with Margaery's brother. In the back of her mind she knew he was a Baratheon, but their respective Houses had never been a point of discussion, and had no reason to turn into one. Sansa doesn't know what Renly could possibly do or say that will make her feel better, but if Margaery is confident he can help, then it's worth a shot.

 

Loras envelops Margaery in a tight hug the second he opens the door. Margaery squeaks in response, but she's standing on her tiptoes to hug him back, her hand bunching up the hair at the nape of his neck. Renly is lounged on the sofa with a beer in one hand and his phone in the other, giving the siblings some semblance of privacy. Sansa slips past them to join him, sitting on the opposite end.

“How was your trip to the untamed north?” she hears Loras ask.

“It was... an experience,” Margaery replies. Her voice sounds tight. Sansa cranes around to look at the both of them, but there's nothing about their posture to symbol any unease. Margaery smiles at her, then takes her brother by the wrist. “Can we talk?”

“Course,” Loras replied. He lets his sister tug him into her bedroom and shuts the door behind them, leaving Sansa alone with Renly. She fidgets. She knows what she needs to ask, but talking to Renly who she really only knows in passing about everything his nephew did and how to get him to permanently sod off is more intimidating than Sansa initially thought. She can't even hear the murmur of their voices over the noise of the telly, but it's probably for the best. If whatever Margaery wanted to talk about was something she wanted to say in earshot of company she wouldn't have left. Sansa pushes down her paranoia and clears her throat.

“Renly?” she asks softly. Renly hums in reply, still looking at his phone. “Renly.” He looks up and tilts his head, managing to resemble a puppy. Sansa sighs and runs a hand through her hair.

“Sansa, what is it?” Renly asks. He's put his phone down and twisted towards her, frowning.

“It's about Joffrey,” Sansa says.

Renly grimaces. “What about him?”

 _You can trust him,_ Sansa tells herself, looking at his open face. _He's family. He has to know what Joffrey's like. He can help you. You can talk to him._ She takes a deep breath.

“We have a history,” she starts. In quick, concise words she explains what happened between her and Joffrey as best as she can, pausing only to glance up when Margaery's door opens and her and Loras re-emerge. They both stop, but sit when Sansa nods and pats the sofa. Margaery takes her hand and massages her palm. Sansa feels drained when the story is over. She leans back against Margaery, drawing comfort from her girlfriend's warmth. Loras mutters a “bloody hell” under his breath, and Renly rubs at the stubble on his chin.

“Is there anything you can do, Renly?” Margaery asks.

Renly sighs and shrugs. “I don't know if he'll listen to me, but... there's one person who still has some control over him. My darling sister-in-law.”

“Cersei?” Loras exclaims behind them, sounding disgusted. “Why in the seven hells would she help?”

“Well I don't bloody know, but it's worth a try, isn't it?” Renly replies. “She'll say something about how he treats women and threaten to cut off his travel expenses, or talk to Robert or something. But she'll be able to sort it better than I will.” Sansa fights the urge to hide her face. She just wants everything to be simple. She just wants Joffrey to go back to Essos and leave her alone. To leave Margaery alone. She wants to return to their little bubble of happiness and forget everything involving Joffrey ever happened.

“Marg,” she starts, twisting to look Margaery in the face. “Why can't we just leave it?”

“We can if you want,” Margaery says softly. “It's your life, Sansa. It's up to you. Know that we'll support you no matter what.” It's all so complicated now. Sansa thought it would be as simple as Renly telling Joff to piss off, but, then again, why would someone like Joffrey listen to their uncle? From what Sansa remembered, Joffrey hardly listened to his parents.

Margaery kisses the edge of her jaw, distracting her. “All that matters is that you accept that what he said and did wasn't your fault, and that you're a beautiful, amazing person.”

“I suppose it's worth a try,” Sansa mumbles.

“I'll send Cersei an email. If there's one thing she's passionate about it's woman's rights. When she finds out her son's been harassing a girl she'll throw a fit.” He grunts when he stands, leaving his space on the sofa free for Loras to steal, which he does so happily. Margaery wriggles around behind Sansa until she's got a leg on either side of Sansa's hips and pulls her back snugly. Sansa lets her head rest on Margaery's shoulder, closing her eyes.

“Are you two going to stay for dinner?” Loras asks. “Or is it back to Sansa's love nest?”

“Loras!” Margaery scolds as Sansa blushes deeply and resists the urge to hide her face bhind her hands.

“Well, I guess you could always make your own love nest here,” Loras replies in a conceding tone. When Sansa looks he's grinning broadly, all white teeth and bright eyes. Margaery scoffs and makes a rude gesture before returning her hand to it's resting place on Sansa's thigh. “I'll take that as a yes,” Loras says, grinning. “I'll get it started.” He leaves for the kitchen, giving Margaery and Sansa the illusion of privacy. Sansa sighs and rubs an eye with her knuckles. There's a headache building at the base of her skull. Just thinking about Joffrey is enough to bring all her defences up, even with Margaery holding her close.

As if sensing her discomfort, Margaery nuzzles her nose along Sansa's cheek. “You're not in this alone,” she says softly. “You have me. You'll always have me.”

“I know,” Sansa replies. Other words bubble around in her chest but she pushes them down. This isn't the right time. She doesn't know when that'll be, but from what she's read and what she's seen and heard and been told, she'll know when the right minute arrives. Maybe it'll spill out in the middle of an argument, or a moment of passion, or maybe she'll whisper it half asleep, but for now she keeps her lips shut tight. Loras knocks around boxes and pans in the kitchen, humming gently to himself. Margaery peppers kisses against the side of Sansa's neck. Sansa lets her thoughts about Joffrey drift back into the dark where they belong. There's nothing about it she can do now.

 

They eat chicken and drink beer and Margaery steals the TV to watch news. Renly sits nex to Sansa, his leg pressed against hers. Loras sits on the ground in front of him, leaning back against his legs.

“I don't know if Cersei will help, but you can bet she'll say something,” Renly says softly. If the other two are listening they're careful not to pay attention. “Maybe Joffrey will at least think twice about being a shit to you again. Hells, maybe he'll even go back to Essos. Wouldn't that be a gift for everyone?”

It's enough to make Sansa laugh, or maybe that's just the alcohol in her system. She still doesn't have the stomach for it, even with food to fill her belly. Margaery rubs her shoulders while they watch TV, and as soon as the news is over lets her brother have pick of what they watch. They settle on a game show and when the boys are completely engrossed asks Sansa to help her clear the dishes.

“Do you want to stay the night?” she asks, washing while Sansa dries. “I don't really want to drive, but I'd be happy to call you a cab.” For a moment, Sansa considers having a night alone to binge watch on Netflix and eat all the ice cream she can manage, but the last time she was alone... She rubs the line on her wrist. A day has done much to heal it, but it's still tender to the touch. She doesn't trust herself quite yet, and being surrounded by everything Margaery is far more tempting than a night on her own.

“I'll stay,” she says, and smiles.

 


	24. Chapter 24

Later, tucked up in Margaery's bed smelling like toothpaste and roses with mint clinging to her teeth, Margaery's kisses turn from ones that make Sansa's chest tighten with giddy glee to ones that make her stomach twist with want. Sansa holds Margaery's hair out of her face, tucking it behind her ear to stop it catching in their mouths, and meets Margaery's inquisitive tongue with her own.

“Sansa?” Margaery asks softly as her fingers trace along Sansa's jaw, “How quiet do you think you can be?”

“What?” Sansa replies before it clicks what Margaery meant and her face turns the same red as her hair. Margaery laughs and nuzzles her nose. “Why?”

“Because,” Margaery drawls, her hand dropping to Sansa's chest, “My brother is on the other side of this wall, and as much as I'd like to get revenge for all the times I've had to listen to him and Renly, I don't want anyone else to hear you.” It's almost sweet and certainly sexy and makes Sansa's breath stick at the top of her throat. “Well? Think you can be quiet?” Margaery's fingers flex around her breast. Sansa doesn't trust herself to speak without moaning. She nods and sinks her teeth into her lip, fingers tightening in Margaery's hair and pulling her head back down for a kiss.

It's embarrassing how quickly Margaery can work her up. All it takes is a minute of having her tits played with and a few kisses and nips at her neck and she's pressing her thighs together and twisting her hips against Margaery's. Margaery's chuckle is low and throaty against her shoulder, but to her credit she doesn't waste time teasing. Her nails rake lightly over Sansa's stomach then dip beneath the waistband of her borrowed shorts and straight between Sansa's legs. Sansa's moaning before she can stop herself, and quickly clamps down on it, burying her face against Margaery's neck. Margaery ghosts clever fingers over her clit. With each pass Sansa bites her lip harder and feels her body tense. Her fingers dig into the soft, warm flesh beneath them. She knows she's already close, and doesn't now if she was already that horny or if Margaery is just that good. Margaery would say it's the latter, of course.

Another moan works its way up her throat. Sansa's too late to stop it before it bubbles over her lips, muffled by Margaery's neck. She hears a sharp inhale of breath, and then there's fingers dipping and nudging. Sansa automatically opens her legs and kisses Margaery as her fingers push into Sansa's core. It's Margaery's turn to moan, the sound vibrating past Sansa's lips. Sansa's hips move, grinding down, pushing Margaery's fingers deeper. She can feel sweat gathering on her brow, between her breasts, on her back.

Then she feels Margaery's fingers curl and her thumb brush up and she bites into Margaery's neck to turn her moan into a whimper. Margaery jerks above her, her body rolling and pressing in all the right places. She curls her fingers again and thrusts hard enough to hit the bed's headboard against the wall. They both pause at the sound then break into muffled giggles.

“Oh, gods,” Margaery says through her laughter. “Loras is going to tease me about that tomorrow.”

“Why?” Sansa asks. “It was only once.”

“No,” Margaery says. “It won't be.” Sansa tries to ask what she means, but Margaery thrusts again and Sansa's head knocks against the wood behind her as it bangs against the wall again and again and again. It takes less than a minute for Sansa to shake her way through her orgasm. She's reaching before she stop shaking, before Margaery has pulled her fingers away, finding her way into Margaery's knickers with trembling, fumbling touches. She's not as strong as Margaery, but she makes the bed shake, too, and when Margaery slumps against her bursts into quiet, embarrassed giggles until they cuddle up and she laughs her way into sleep.

 

Loras definitely did had something to say in the morning, a few very choice words and gestures that made _Margaery_ turn bright red. It's not until Renly winks at her that Sansa does the same, and remembers the email that Renly sent off. Sansa tries to think of a subtle way to bridge the subject, mulling over her breakfast. Part of her still just wanted to forget it. King's Landing was a big city. The chances of her running into Joffrey again were slim to none. But could she really forget it if she didn't get some kind of closure? Even if it was just a forced apology from Joff or an opportunity to tell him to fuck off to his face. She thinks she could do it if she had Margery there holding her hand, silently reassuring her that no matter what Joff said to her in the past, there's nothing wrong with her.

There's nothing wrong with her.

“I have to tell my parents.”

“Hm?” Margaery asks, squeezing her hand.

“Before we do... whatever this is with Joffrey. I need to tell them. I need to know that I have their support in case something goes wrong.” Margaery stands and pulls them from the table towards the sofa. Loras and Renly, though obviously curious, make conversation between themselves. Margaery sits on the arm of the sofa, holding both of Sansa's hands in her own.

“Are you sure?” she asks, looking up into Sansa's eyes. Sansa nods, not trusting her voice to be steady. Her stomach twists and rises, her heart thumping. She can imagine a dozen different ways such a confession will go. Being disowned, kicked out, shunned. But if they accept her for who she is... then maybe one day she can tell them about Joffrey. About everything he did. Nd then maybe they'll understand why she is how she is. And there can be family holidays with Margaery sitting next to her at the table, joking with her brothers and holding her hand, smiling her sweet smile.

“I'm sure,” Sansa says.

“When?”

“Tonight. It has to be tonight. I'm tired of hiding who I am.”

“Do you want me there with you?” Margaery asks.

Sansa nods quickly and steps into a tight hug, burying her face in Margaery's hair. Over and over she tells herself it'll be okay. She just has to say it. She _needs_ to say it. She refuses to lurk in the shadows constantly being afraid of what other people will think. Margaery holds her close, rubbing the small of her back, her breathing slow and steady and constant against the crook of Sansa's neck. Sansa closes her eyes. She feels and listens and holds on to the safety that wraps her up like a familiar blanket while she still has it in her reach.

 

She catches her parents on a good day. They're both home, and her siblings are, too, although they're all out doing their own thing. Sansa sets up a skype time through email and spends the hour preceding it pacing back and forth in front of her laptop, hugging herself and chewing on her nails. Margaery watches from the sofa, pretending to be preoccupied by her phone when really her eyes never leave Sansa's worried face. When it's half an hour to go she makes Sansa slowly drink a large glass of water and sit down for five minutes, breathing in and out in time with Margaery's whispered instructions. At ten minutes Margaery kisses her and tells her it's going to be okay. At five Sansa rushes to the bathroom and dry heaves over the toilet then splashes her face with cold water and returns to Margaery with pale skin and shaking hands. When her computer starts to ring Sansa nearly pukes then. Margaery has to answer the call. She sits just out of the webcam's range, giving Sansa a broad, supportive smile that's all teeth and soft eyes.

Her parents faces are there, a bit blocky but theirs, smiling and happy to see her. Catelyn's hair is down and her expression is relaxed. There's shadows under her father's eyes but they both wave and say staticy hellos. Margaery pats Sansa's leg. Her parents lean back against the sofa, nursing cups of tea. Sansa can hear the TV in the background and wish that she had some white noise to put on to help her keep her nerve.

“Go on,” Margaery says softly. “It's okay.”

Sansa takes a deep breath. “I have something to tell you guys,” she says.

“What's the matter, love?” Catelyn asks. “You look pale as a ghost.”

Sansa glances to Margaery. She nods, not smiling, but her face easy and open. Sansa wishes she had an ounce of Margaery's confidence right now. She can't breathe but she forces herself to, dragging air into her resisting lungs until they're so full they feel like they're going to burst. The words tumble out of her mouth in a rush.

“I'm gay.”

There's an achingly long pause. For a second Sansa thinks the call has frozen and she'll have to say it again, but her parents' images shift and they're both grinning, sharing a knowing glance. Confusion replaces Sansa's fear. She feels her face dip into a frown.

“We know,” Ned says. “But we're glad you've finally told us.”

“You-what?”

“You're our daughter, Sansa,” Catelyn says. “These things... a parent just knows. Are you seeing someone?”

Sansa feels like she's been hit by a truck. Like she could sleep for a month. She's shaking and her eyes are wet and she can't stop smiling and she doesn't know what's wrong but all she can feel is _relief_ coursing through her veins like a drug. She nods quickly, biting her lip and groping blindly for Margaery's hand. Margaery takes it and kisses her knuckles.

“Yeah,” Sansa chokes out. “Yeah, I am. You've, uh, you've met her, actually.”

Cat smacks Ned's shoulder with a smug smile. “I told you so.” All Ned does is laugh. “Well, tell Margaery she has our blessing.”

“She knows.”

“Was there anything else you wanted to tell us, sweetling?” Cat asks. Sansa shakes her head and wipes at her eyes.

“No. Just. I love you.”

“We love you, too, Sansa,” Ned says. “Don't be a stranger.”

“I won't.”

They say goodbye and end the call and Sansa slumps back against the sofa with a heavy sigh. “By the gods,” she mutters, and suddenly she's laughing. Margaery pulls her in, nuzzling her hair and planting butterfly kisses all over her face.

“Sweet girl,” she whispers. “My sweet girl. I love you, Sansa. I love you.”

“I know,” Sansa replies and turns her head for a proper kiss, one that's deep and soft and full of smiles and tears and laughter. “Gods,” Sansa says against Margaery's lips, “I need a Netflix binge after that.”

“I'll get the ice cream,” Margaery replies and hops nimbly off the sofa. Sansa logs in and looks for something to watch, sniffing and rubbing tears off her cheeks. It doesn't matter what happens with Joffrey now. She'll always have her family. Have Margaery. And that's all she needs.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting close to the end, I think.


	25. THIS IS AN ANNOUNCEMENT

Some of you have expressed disappointment with how this story has ended, which I understand and have responded to with the reasons why. Others have asked me for a sequel which I frankly don't have the time or the inclination to do. What I DO want to do, however, is write a sort of follow-up one shot to try and soothe any ruffled feathers and give myself some closure (since I'm not happy with how I ended the story either, but I had my reasons at the time). I don't know when I'm going to start it or when it'll be finished but it'll be posted in its entirety, probably as one chapter, maybe broken up into two or three depending on length, just to make it easier to read.

If y'all have any questions I'll answer comments here or you can hit up my Tumblr askbox at hotttallandginger.

 


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